


When the Doves Cry

by a_little_chai



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe- No Supernatural, Angels (Supernatural) as Siblings, Angst with a Happy Ending, Broken Bones, Charlie Bradbury & Dean Winchester Friendship, Diary/Journal, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Hospitals, Human Castiel (Supernatural), Hurt Castiel (Supernatural), Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Kansas, Kidnapping, Lawyer Sam Winchester, M/M, Non-Consensual Body Modification, POV Castiel (Supernatural), POV Dean Winchester, Panic Attacks, Police Officer Dean Winchester, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Prayer, Slow Burn, Torture, Witness Protection, Writer Castiel (Supernatural)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-10
Updated: 2019-08-18
Packaged: 2020-08-14 00:30:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 22,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20183254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_little_chai/pseuds/a_little_chai
Summary: When Officer Dean Winchester was put back on field duty after three years, he never expected to meet possibly the hottest man on Earth. Castiel has a dark past, one Dean is supposed to protect him from until he can go into WITSEC. But when Dean’s own demons come to haunt them, they are both forced to face his worst nightmare: his four months in Hell.(Now with an Epilogue!)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey y'all! This took me way too long to finish, but its finally done! It will post every other day, and is completely written and edited. Thank you for reading, and I hope you enjoy!
> 
> (All warnings will be posted in end notes)

_ Saturday, 12:35 pm _

“Come on, Cassie! It’d be good for you to get out of that crummy apartment for a night. Y’know, maybe you’ll get a little... action? I’ve already got around my guy twice, some big Cajun asshole, ‘Lafoot’ or whatever. And boy, was it worth it. The locals...”

“How have you snuck out twice already? We’ve only been here a day.”

“Well, there were these twins. One worked days and one worked nights, both had an amazing liking of a little latex and being filmed. You can’t seriously blame me for that!”

Castiel let out a heavy sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose. He loved his brother, but he was a handful sometimes. And an asshole.

“I can, and I will. Besides, I can’t leave, you know that.”

“Why, just because some suit told you not to? You can slip the copper on your door, easy.”

God, he hated Gabriel sometimes. It took everything in him to not throw the phone across the room.

“It’s not safe, Gabe. He-“

“Don’t give me that shit too, Cas. ‘If you go out he might find you.’ ‘Stay with your escort.’ It’s all I’ve been hearing for the past three days, and honestly? I’m sick of it.”

“It’s just for another week, then we’ll be out of the safe houses. Besides, I have work to do.”

By work, he meant the constantly looming deadline for his book, which he had written exactly four words of. The document, he knew, was open on his laptop in the bedroom, cursor blinking expectantly.

‘Get a new job.’ 

He wanted to get a new life right now.

“Yes, your ‘work.’ It’s not a real book without at least one sex scene, y’know. I read that thing back to cover, nothing in there that could even come close to _romance_.”

Or at least a new brother.

“Look, it’s not healthy for you to be stuck with only your laptop for company, no matter how much porn is on there. Besides, what’s the worse that could happen?”

“He finds me.” The ‘I die’ part is implied, but both of them heard it clearly. He heard Gabriel swallow on the other end of the line. He wasn’t wrong, though. “I am already hiding in the bathroom to call you.”

“I’m just worried about you,” His brother’s voice was soft, caring in a way that was unusual. Gabriel always cared, but generally the sarcasm and wit, a smattering of sexual jokes, covered it up unless you knew to look for it. 

“I know.”

“Call me later, alright? I worry otherwise.”

“I’ll try, but I can’t promise. They’re watching me pretty closely. Apparently, they think I’m a flight risk or something.”

“Pretty closely, huh? Is it that officer you were telling me about earlier? The one with an ‘exquisite’ ass?”

“I am not dignifying that with a response.”

“So yes, then.”

“Goodbye, Gabe.”

He hung up the phone, and let his head fall until his forehead was touching his knees.

If you’d told him a year ago he’d be hiding in an apartment bathroom guarded by a police officer, he would have said you were insane. Or on hallucinogenic drugs. But look at him now, sitting on top of a toilet, running the tap so the cop outside couldn’t hear him.

Of course, a year ago was before everything went to Hell.

He gave himself another quick moment of peace, before walking over and turning off the sink. Gabe was right; being stuck in this tiny apartment was making him restless. He couldn’t think, or sleep, much less write.

His deadline wasn’t the only date that terrified him. In a week, it would all get even worse.

He opened the door, and was greeted with the back of his detail. And that was exactly not what he needed to see right now, especially with Gabriel’s words ringing in his head. Did he have to be so crude all the time? He should have just kept that bit of information to himself, should’ve known better than to tell his brother something like that. He won’t let it go for years.

The man turned, and suddenly Cas was faced with his face. Brilliant green eyes, set into golden skin dusted with freckles. It seemed it was just his luck to get the guy who had to be the hottest officer on the force.

“You alright there, James? You were in there for a while.” God, even his voice was breathtaking. But that didn’t do anything to make him less annoyed about his name.

One week, he only had to endure this for one more week.

“Yes, I’m fine. And I would appreciate it if you would call me Castiel. I understand that you are supposed to acclimate me to the new name, but if this is my last week with my own, I would like to enjoy it.”

James, or Jimmy, Milton. That was the name chosen for him. There was a nice house being set up in Pontiac, Illinois, where James would start a fabulous career in writing. Maybe some critic may notice the remarkable similarity to his own novel, but that would be known as a simple coincidence. James would be a recluse, never going to book signings or making any public appearances.

Every detail of James’ past had been mapped out, and drilled into his brain the past three days until he could recite it back without thinking. Born in Russia, moved to the U.S. in college. Had a terrier named Spot when he was ten. Only child, two loving parents.

He hated that fictitious person, hated that he would have to become him. That one night would ruin his entire life, to the point where he would cease to exist. Officially, Castiel Novak would die in a week. A brief obituary in the Lawrence newspaper, and he would be gone.

“Yeah, yeah. Sorry.” He was pulled quickly out of his thoughts by the genuine remorse that was in the cop’s voice. Like he was actually apologetic. And after being treated like cattle for the past three days, he appreciated that.

“I didn’t learn your name, earlier.” Everything had happened so fast, and the last thing on his mind had been to learn the name of the man he saw as little more than a prison warden.

“It’s Dean, Dean Winchester.”

It seemed... fitting somehow. The name suited him. He’d never really thought much about names before. They really were a person’s whole identity.

“Well, then, thank you, Officer Winchester. That’s quite kind of you.”

“You’re very welcome, Mr. Novak.” He even did a tiny bow. Not only was he stuck with an attractive man, but he was cute and dorky too.

God must hate him.

..::*::..

_ Tuesday, 11:44 pm _

The clock on the nightstand was too bright. Every time his eyes were drifting closed, that clock would wake him up again. He could unplug it, or smash it against the wall, but the light wasn’t really what was keeping him awake.

He was restless. He needed to go and do something, not be stuck in this tiny apartment any longer. It’s only been two days, and he was already going crazy. The only company he had was Winchester, who he was trying desperately to avoid. The only food here was a carton of milk about to turn, some stale cereal, and whatever takeout they ordered. A laptop and phone with no internet connection for entertainment.

It really was like they didn’t trust him. Although, they were probably right to do so. He would have left much earlier if he was sure he could get away. But that damn officer was constantly watching.

Except for now, at eleven forty-four (and twenty three seconds).

(twenty four).

(twenty five).

He listened carefully into the silence. A car driving down the road, dog barking. And, very faintly, snoring coming from the other room.

Ripping the covers off, he fumbled around for a second on the nightstand until his hands closed around his glasses. They didn’t help him see through the pitch black, though, and he cursed softly when his knee hit the bed’s corner.

He dressed as quietly as he could, hoping that he actually managed to grab real clothes. A pair of jeans, a sweater.

The door creaked. The floorboards creaked. Seemed like everything creaked, because that was how bad his luck had gotten: he was making as much noise as humanly possible trying to sneak away from his police protection detail.

This is all Gabriel’s fault.

Soon he was safely out of the apartment. It looked so different from the outside, like it was just a normal complex and not the most comfortable prison.

He walked down the sidewalk, wincing at the cold. Shoved his hands deep into his pockets, and tried to ignore how much his ears were burning. At least it was not hot. He can’t stand the heat.

His plan had been to take a quick walk, then go back. But his hands were already numb, and the apartment had been remarkably close to the town’s center. The bar at the corner looked inviting enough.

The Roadhouse, it appeared, was in its busiest time. It was a Tuesday night, but the place was full. Ignoring the heavy smell of cigarettes and liquor that hung in the air, he took a seat at the bar.

A year ago, this would have been easy for him. To just go out and drink without having to worry about anything. Now he couldn’t stop glancing over his shoulder, startling at every loud sound from the crowd behind him. Curling his hands into fists to hide the trembling.

He let a hand go into the pocket of his jeans, and pull out a small business card that was in there. On it, in fine print, was Winchester’s name and number. If something happened, he could call the police stationed two blocks away.

“What’s your poison?”

He jumped, surprised at the sudden appearance of the bartender. She was pretty, not exactly the type you’d expect to see behind a bar counter.

“What?”

“What’cha want to drink, boy? We have practically everythin’, except for those fancy-schmancy things. That ain’t what we do here.”

“Uh...” He suddenly thought to his ID, taken and probably shredded days ago. “Just water, please.”

“You come to a bar at midnight, with _that_ look on your face, and all ya want is water?”

“I don’t... I don’t have my ID on me.” He swept a heavy hand through his hair, which probably was sticking up everywhere. “And if I start drinking, I don’t know if I’ll be able to stop.”

“That bad, huh?” She turned, quickly filling a glass with water and setting it on the counter. He nodded, staring at the ice, before remembering to pay. He dug deep into his pocket, and sighed in relief when his hand closed around some bills. He put two dollars on the counter, before shoving the rest in his pocket. “A girl?”

“No, no, nothing like that. Just... having a rough week.” He chuckled bitterly. “A very rough week.”

“I hear ya. Name’s Missouri.”

The pause was obviously for him to tell her his name. But what was his name now? Not Castiel, surely. His old life was burned away and gone, as ripped apart as his ID probably is. He couldn’t call himself James though. He just... couldn’t.

The bartender, Missouri, leaned in. “Look, we get all types here. Ain’t exactly the nicest place in the city. Cheap beer and eight ball attracts some... interestin’ characters, ‘specially on this side of town. You don’t have to worry about it, if you can’t tell me ya name.”

His shoulders dropped as that sudden weight was lifted off him. That was a probably to worry about tomorrow. Or, at least, later today. Not at midnight, certainly. “Thank you. This has been a trying day.”

“Don’t worry about it, son. You seem like a good guy, through and through. Enjoy ya water.”

Time passed quickly, sitting on that stool. It dug into his back uncomfortably, but he didn’t move. As loud and boisterous as the other patrons were, they were a calming presence. Just to be in the same room as people after days practically alone was a miracle unto itself.

He checked his phone occasionally, watched as the time ticked by, from twelve, to one, to two in the morning. He wasn’t stupid enough to call anyone, not even Gabriel. It was nice, though, to know he had the ability to reach out and talk to him.

When it was getting close to three, and most everybody had left, a hand touched his shoulder. He jumped a mile high, before turning and seeing green. Dammit.

“What the fuck are you doing here, James?” Winchester said furiously, before adding under his breath. “You could’ve gotten yourself killed.”

He opened his mouth to answer, but before he could, Dean was taking his arm and pulling him out the front door. The air was a blast of cold on his face.

“Are you freakin’ suicidal? Because that’s the only reason I can think of for you sneaking out in the middle of the night!”

All the anger that he’d been pushing away suddenly flooded back.

“You have me trapped in that apartment for days, treated like an animal, my identity being slowly stripped away. God forbid I actually want to _talk_ to someone.” He ripped his arm out of Winchester’s grip, then turned and walked ahead down the street.

“Look, I get it, this whole thing sucks. And I’m sorry for that. But there is a _reason_ for our regulations, alright? My main priority is to keep you safe until your new identity is secure. I can’t do that if you’re sneaking out under my nose when I’m sleeping.”

“I shouldn’t have to be doing this.” He yelled out, stopping and turning to face Dean. “All of this is the fault of _your_ police department. If they hadn’t let Lucifer get away, I wouldn’t have to lose everything I built for myself. I wouldn’t have to give up my name, my identity. My brother.”

He saw the distress creasing the cop’s face, probably at his loud voice, but ignored it. “I’m thirty years old, have my life in front of me. It’s not my fault that I saw... I saw...”

Images flashed in front of his vision. Grey eyes with lids speckled with blood. Dark hair matted with red.

“I can’t imagine what you’re going through, Castiel.” The use of his actual name, outside, was enough for some of his anger to bleed away. “But I need to do my job, and that is to keep you safe. I need you to stay put from now on, okay?”

He just stared at that beautiful face for another second, before continuing the long walk back to the apartment. The rest of it was in charged silence, the tension crackling between them.

Facing the door, it took everything in him to willingly walk over the threshold. But he did, remembering that face stark against white tile. This was for his protection. For Gabe’s. He could do this.

That didn’t make his heart hurt any less when he heard the lock click.

“Is the anything I can... do? Something you want that could help, maybe?”

He turned, looking at where Dean was standing. He looked haggard, and worried. Maybe he had been too harsh. The last of the anger that he still felt towards the officer disintegrated at his genuine tone.

“A book, from the library? There’s not really much for me to do, here, and it’s not like you’ll let me go myself.”

He heard a soft exhale of breath from behind him. “Yeah, yeah I can do that.”

“Thank you.” He murmured quietly.

“Goodnight, Mr. Novak. Get some sleep.” Dean said, before turning and walking back to his bedroom.

He was left there, standing in the middle of the kitchen, feeling like he couldn’t get a second of sleep if his life depended on it.

..::*::..

_ Wednesday, 2:36 a.m. _

He couldn't sleep. That'd been happening pretty often now. There was always something running through the back of his mind. And it wasn't like he necessarily wanted to fall asleep. Sleep meant dreams, and dreams generally meant nightmares. There was only so many times he could relive it. 

So he just stared at his laptop instead, at the blank page clicking in front of him. His publisher had been pretty adamant about getting his book completed in the next few months. He hardly had a plot outline done at the moment, much less something that he could submit to her. 

He wrote a few sentences down, then deleted them. God, what was wrong with him? He just... _couldn't_ get the words out. Hadn't been able to since he'd finished his last book. 

The minutes ticked by, each one marked by the clock. He could feel his eyes drooping down as he struggled to stay awake. No, he couldn't go to bed yet; had to wait until he literally passed out from exhaustion so he didn't dream. At least, not as much. But when his eyes finally closed, he was startled by a sound. 

His first thought would have been a choked-off scream. It sent chills down his spine. But no, that couldn't be right, because it had to have come from the other bedroom, and the only other person in the house was- 

Oh. _Oh._

He got up, pushing back the covers and setting his laptop down where it wouldn't fall. It had to have been Officer Winchester who had made that sound. Or he was truly going insane from exhaustion. But it'd seemed too real for that to be the case. 

He gently pushed open the door to the other man's bedroom. This wasn't awkward, he was just making sure that he was alright. In all likelihood, he was asleep, he'd totally imagined it. But instead there was a low moan, and he was greeted with the sight of Dean, completely caught in the covers. He was twisting, turning, as though trying to get away. He was saying something too, in between what sounded to be, horribly, whimpers. 

He turned the light on, and walked in. It felt personal, like he was overstepping one of those social boundaries that he'd never quite understood. But it was obvious the man was in pain, and he couldn't just leave him like that. Gently, he pushed at the man's shoulder. All he got was a low moan in response, and some things that sounded way too much like pleas. 

"Dean?" He asked quietly, pushing him again. 

"Please, please! I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm-" The other man was saying. His face was screwed up, covered in a thin sheen of sweat. a line of tears dripped from his eyes. He looked horrible. "No! No no no no no no no-"

"You're having a nightmare, Dean." He said, feeling like there was more he should do. Making a decision that he was pretty sure would get him punched if the other man was awake, he ran a quick hand through his hair, whispering little nothings about far away lands and angels and demons. It was what Michael had done when he was younger and had a nightmare. If he had been too loud, his parents would hear, and they couldn't hear him. They just couldn't.

Somehow, impossibly, it seemed to work. Eventually the words died down into softer whimpers, until the other man was silent. He stilled. Cas smiled despite himself, and hurried to shut off the light and leave the room. Dean had been an asshole, the image of everything he hated, but for some reason, he liked him anyway. 

When he fell asleep an hour later, he didn't have his own normal nightmares. No, he dreamed of Dean. His green eyes and freckled face. That he was happy, and they were together. It wasn't realistic, would never happen. But it was comforting. He woke up feeling better than he had since this whole mess of his life had started. 

..::*::..

_ Thursday, 1:33 pm _

“I wasn’t really sure what you would like, so I just picked something randomly.” Cas looked down at the book in Dean’s hand. It was some horror-slash-mystery-slash-fantasy novel that was stirring up controversy. Mostly because the author was quite... eccentric. Claiming to be a prophet writing new gospels or something.

“I also, uh, saw your book there.” He looked up at that. His own book was hardly noteworthy, had barely made a stir. It was surprising this small town library even had it. “Read a few pages. It was pretty good.”

“Thanks.” He said shortly. “It’s... that was really kind of you.”

“It’s not a problem. I had to get the grub delivered anyway.” He held up the plastic bag in his hand. “Chinese today. Hope you like orange chicken!”

“It is much better than stale Cheerios.”

They had fallen into a routine at mealtime, almost. For lunch and dinner there was takeout from one of the many places in downtown Lebanon, which Dean picked up while he stayed locked in the room. Cas always called his brother then. 

The only time both himself and Dean spent long periods in the same room together was when they ate. Otherwise, they tended to stay far away from each other.

It wasn’t that he didn’t like Dean. He liked him a bit too much, actually. No, it was what he represented. The police force, the people who have caused him to lose everything. Every part, from the gun on his belt to the badge on his breast, reminds him of that. He can’t help being short around him. And it didn't help that he felt like he was hiding something after the nightmare thing. 

He nodded his thanks and took the styrofoam container over to the small dining table. He didn’t wait for Dean to come over, just started eating. He was starving, having had to throw out the milk, which meant no breakfast this morning.

“What, uh, what made you think of it?”

“Excuse me?” He asked, looking up from the already half-gone meal.

“The plot, of your book. Sorry. It’s an... an interesting idea?” Dean sounded so unsure about himself, almost blushing as he scooped rice into a bowl.

“You think so?” He would not admit how amazing his praise felt. Definitely not.

“Yeah, I mean, that whole thing with the angels and demons. Apocalypse and what not. And focusing on the angel falling through it all...” He trailed off, the rose of his cheeks getting deeper.

“You read more than a few pages.” Castiel said with a smirk. It was out of place to see the officer so candid. And that blush did wonders to him.

“Maybe.” Sheepishly. “I guess that’s why I picked that book.” He gestured vaguely towards where the library book is sitting on the table. “Same apocalypse idea and stuff. Angels and demons.”

He sat down on the chair opposite of Cas. They fell into the same comfortable silence that seemed to always happen when they ate.

“You mentioned your brother, before.” Dean asked, head still looking down towards his food. “Have you been able to talk to him, since all this?”

He remembered the short conversation in the bathroom, the few others later that were mostly spent talking about Dean and, for lack of a better word, _crushing_ over him, and nodded slightly. “They said our placement would be close together, so we wouldn’t lose each other completely.”

He pushed the little piece of chicken on his plate back and forth. Suddenly he wasn’t as hungry anymore.

“I... I really am sorry for what happened. This is all the fault of the department. Mine, too.”

That made him pause. “Yours?”

“The mole, the one that helped your... Lucifer escape, he was my friend. Served next to him for the past three years. I’d seen firsthand that Henrickson wasn’t exactly stable. I should’ve known, should’ve-“

“Dean, there’s no way you would have been able to figure that out. No one could’ve. It’s not your fault.”

“How can you not blame me?" Dean put down his fork, and ran a hand through his hair. "I ruined your life, you even said it that to me.”

Castiel sighed. “Yes, I did, and I’m sorry for saying that. It was not true, I was just angry and scared, but you weren’t the one to let him escape. It was... unfair to imply that you were.”

He gestured towards the book on the table between them. “You didn’t have to do that, go out of your way. I’m sure you already hate having to ‘babysit’ me for days. You are a good person, Dean.”

The blush returned in full force. “I don’t hate it, I mean, you aren’t so bad. It beats busting the same group of kids for smoking out by the water tower.”

Cas smiled. He wasn’t always the best at talking to people, like he never quite developed the correct casual way of speaking. But it seemed he did good enough here.

They went back to eating, talking about random things like movies. Which spiraled into Dean promising to get one when he went to go get dinner, and they could watch it together. He even got the cop to agree to buying popcorn. Although that didn’t take much convincing.

It was the first real conversation he’d had in almost a week, and it was overwhelming. It didn’t help that he had this weird... crush? Not just because he was good looking, although it was certainly true. More of a connection between them, that went beyond what it should for having just met.

He learned that he had a brother Sam, who was a lawyer, along with a sister named Charlie, a hacker-turned-cop that was amazing at anything technological. Their family had a history of being in law enforcement, dating generations back.

Dean didn’t ask about his family. He probably knew everything from the files, anyway, and thinking about it would bring up more bad memories than he would care to admit.

The knock at the door surprised them both. Dean dropped his fork, all hint of his previous aloofness gone and replaced with concentration. The sudden change was almost terrifying for him to watch.

“Go to the back room, shut off the lights, and hide. I’ll send whoever this is away.” He unclicked the holster on his waist. Castiel swallowed. It was easy to forget sometimes that Dean carried a gun, and could use it.

“I-I’m sure it’s nothing.” He said, more for himself than anything else. It had to be nothing. It had to be.

“Go, Novak!” Dean whispered furiously, shoving him slightly. He quickly scrambled back out of chair, nearly knocking it over, and moved to the bedroom.

The door shut with a soft click, and he listened carefully through the wood. There was the sound of the front door opening, muffled voices. Then a loud crash.

He jumped, pressing a fist into his mouth to keep from crying out. The silence that followed was worse, as he sat alone in the dark room. Was Dean okay? Could he be hurt? Was it... was it Lucifer?

Quickly, he forced his mind to stop panicking and focus. He had his laptop, some clothes, and not much else. The only actual weapon in the apartment was on Dean’s belt.

He grabbed his laptop, holding it up prepared to strike. His hand twisted the knob slowly, wincing at the creak. His breathing was loud in his ears, grating against the nothing.

He rounded the corner into the kitchen, and was faced with two figures on the floor. One had their back turned to him, and was crouching over Dean, who seemed to be unconscious lying on the floor.

He quickly flattened back against the wall, out of sight. He had always had the worst luck. It took a minute, but he managed to form something resembling a plan.

When he walked back into the kitchen, the man was still crouched down over Dean. His finger was tracing the floor, oddly. He lifted his laptop above him, and slammed it down as hard as he could on the man’s head.

Instead of knocking him out, the guy just turned, a sneer pulling his lips away from his teeth. It wasn’t Lucifer, thank god it wasn’t. But this man sent shivers down his spine, like there was something just _wrong_ about him.

“So you’re the pretty angel I was supposed to find. Your brother’s put a hefty price on your little head.” He couldn’t move, could hardly breathe as the man slowly stood up, and walked towards him.

He stumbled back, until his shoulders touched the wall behind him. He was trapped. He forced himself to breathe through the sudden pressure on his chest.

“I was expecting more than _this_ from the best cop I ever had the pleasure of putting on my rack. Pitiful.” The man wiped blood that was coating his fingers onto Cas’ clothes. “Dean Winchester. The sounds he made, just beautiful.”

His eyes darted from the man looming in front of him to Dean on the floor. Apparently, him and the man—who seems like his name could be Nasally, considering how pinched his voice is—had history. And, considering what he was just told, it didn’t sound very pleasant.

He was fucked.

A hand suddenly shot out and wrapped around his throat. His feet were dangling above the ground, and he tried desperately to claw those fingers away.

“...please!” He managed to gasp out. But Nasally just grinned, and pressed harder.

“Pleading?! I thought you would have a bit more dignity than that.” He was pulled into the man’s chest, his arm now pushing against his throat. He could smell the coppery tang, along with the musk of tobacco. Another hand pulled his hair back painfully, forcing him to bare his neck and look him in his cold, dead, grey eyes.

“People always sound so beautiful when they’re being choked out. I would keep you, put you on the rack for days. I have this new method of breaking bone I’ve just been _itching_ to try out, and you, little angel, seem just perfect for it. You would scream for _hours_, I know you would. Can practically taste it. Your brother said to dispose of you, and if there’s someone I’m not crossing, it’s Morningstar.”

His vision was starting to tunnel and darken. His chest rose and fell as he fought for breath, but he could never get it through the vice grip on his throat.

“But that doesn’t mean I can’t have a little fun first.”

And the world faded to black.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Sorry the posting schedule has switched around so much. It should stick to every other day from now on. I am going on vacation, but I will try my best to get all the chapters out on time. Hope you enjoy!
> 
> Warnings in end notes.

_ Thursday, 4:52 p.m. _

If there was one thing Dean Winchester knew how to do, it was being a cop. Yeah, he could fix-up cars pretty well, had to do it with Baby enough times. He hadn’t been horrible at school either. But it had always felt as though being an officer was in his blood. So Kansas State Police became his job.

Everyone has a story, the thing that they regret and carry with them for the rest of their lives.

For him, it was Hell.

This had been the closest to actual field work he’d gotten to in the past three years. Yeah, taking care of some guy before they get put into Witsec wasn’t exactly the most glamorous, but it was better than paperwork.

And the guy was hot as fuck, which is a plus side. Black hair, and the bluest eyes he’d ever seen. His ass wasn’t half bad either. He was smart, funny, and once again he was falling head over heels for a probably-totally-straight-dude. One that, following the rules, was completely out of his reach. And, if he’s being honest, probably his league, too. That happened way too often for comfort.

And, yeah, he’d read that book. Once he heard that Castiel had written something, he needed to read it. For research purposes. To better understand him.

God, he can’t even lie to himself anymore.

‘When Angel’s Fall’ was one of the better things he’d read. The plot’s excellent, not to mention the actual writing. It had barely taken him a day to get through, and that was coming from a person who got a D minus in tenth grade english. 

It follows Anna, a fiery angel who falls for helping and protecting humanity through the Apocalypse. She’s stabbed by another angel, some dick he doesn’t remember, almost killing her. To save her life, she cuts out her grace-stuff, making her human. And she forgets everything, being reborn at the end of the book as a baby.

And it was pretty damn awesome.

So, yeah, he was enjoying himself. Spending twenty-four hours every day for a week with a super hot, super talented man. Who he had a massive crush on.

That had been before.

Now he was waking up in a pool of his own blood. Which happens far more often than could be normal. 

His head pounded, like someone was hitting over and over again with a hammer. A very sharp and spiky hammer that weighed a solid ton. He could feel the blood going down his face from his temple, sticky and matting with his hair.

He forced himself to open his eyes. To get up and look around and assess the situation like his father had told him again and again. His gun was gone, along with his walkie. A laptop was under the table, dented beyond repair. And there was something next to him, a symbol written on the floor-

He retched, gagging. He put his hands on his knees, forcing breaths in when all he wanted to do was lie down and curl into a ball and cry. It was hard to breathe, hard to _think_ through the sudden panic. That hadn't been just any man hiding behind a black mask.

It was in his blood. He knew it was. The circle was cleaner in this one, the star inside had straighter lines. But the flames were the same, almost threatening to swallow him. Like they were actually there, and he was drowning in their heat.

The same symbol was carved, shakily, into his chest, right above his heart. Disjointed lines made of silvery scars, but it was the exact same. 'To ward against any other demons that might try to hurt him.' He'd said, holding the thin knife. Any beside _him_, at least.

Alastair has been here. And after three years, that thought made him almost pass out. Made the room spin and his breath come in fast.

Alastair was the one to knock him over the head with his own gun. Alastair must’ve been the one who broke into the apartment. But why would-?

Shit! Shit shit shit shit shit shit shit, of course, Castiel! Where the fuck was Cas?

He ran into the back room, hoping beyond any hope that his charge, _his friend_, as insane as it was, would still be hiding there. But he was greeted with an empty room.

And then a thought wormed its way into his brain. Of Cas, alone with Alastair and, and Cas, oh god, Cas-

He reached shakily for his phone, dialing Bobby’s number. He would know what to do. He always knew what to do.

“Dean, why you calling? How’s our witness doing?”

“Bobby, he was here, he, he... I got knocked out and- god, Cas is- I don’t know, and-“

“Slow the hell down, boy. What happened?”

He took a deep breath. God, this had all gone to shit. “It was... it was Alastair. He broke in, grabbed my gun. Knocked me out. His... his signature is on the floor.”

“Balls! You alright? Where’s Milton?”

“I... I’m fine.” They both knew it was a lie. “But Ca- James is gone. I don’t know if Alastair took him or if he ran, but if I had to guess...”

“I'm sending Harvelle to bring you to urgent care-“ He tried to protest, but Bobby just kept talking. “-She'll take a statement. I'll dispatch two other officers to the safe house, to take the report. And Dean?”

“Yeah?”

“Take care of yourself, kid. We'll get him back.”

“Thanks Bobby.” He said, genuinely, and hung up. Bobby has been like his father, and for the past five years, his boss. But everyone in there little police department was like family. Not much happened in Lebanon. Or, at least, not much used to happen.

“Breathe, Winchester. Fucking breathe.” He whispered to himself. He could already feel himself cracking, memories held back by a wall mended with duck tape coming undone. Every time he blinked, he could see Alastair. Those grey eyes, toothy smile. He could almost feel hands moving along his shoulder, caressing up and down his spine. Soft touches between all the pain.

Four months, he'd been in Hell. Four months, three years ago, and now it was all coming down on his head. He'd had one job, one fucking job, and he'd messed it up. He always messes shit up, always.

And now it was Cas who's caught in the crossfire, taken by a downright demonic sadist-for-hire.

Fuck.

..::*::..

_  
Thursday, 6:37 p.m.  
_

He swallowed.

Once.

Twice.

Blinked.

Again.

And again.

It didn't clear away the black that filled his vision. And it was a terrifying darkness laying over him. It made all his other senses sharper, until every touch and smell and sound was grating against his oversensitive nerves. The rumble of the engine. The coarse fabric against his bound arms. The faint stench of gasoline and cigarettes. The absolute pitch that covered him was suffocating.

He was in the trunk of a car. That was the only thing he could think of. The trunk of a car of someone who had to be insane. Someone who was contracted to kill him.

He could still hear that pinched voice, the complete vulnerability at his throat being bared as he was pressed into his chest. And he had been certain, in that moment, that he was going to die.

And yet he'd woken up here, in the place of his nightmares.

He'd never had a problem with tight spaces. In fact, as a child, sometimes he run and hide in closets during games of Hide-and-Seek. That closeness had almost been comforting. But here the floor and the walls were both pressing down on him, his arms and legs bound too tightly to try to find a way out.

He's trapped here, with tears streaming down his face and catching in his hair. The temperature had slowly been going up, until he was sweating under his multiple layers. His clothes were as damp as his eyes.

He was thirsty and hungry and tired, so, so tired. It wasn't the kind of weariness you felt from staying up a bit too late, or waking up early to do something. This was a bone-deep weariness that no amount of sleep and rest and recovery could shake. This is the feeling of absolute loss. Of hope. Of love. Of faith.

Praying was something he used to do. Before all this had happened. He'd had faith in a God and a plan and salvation and revelation and predestination. Said grace before every meal, never cursed. Sundays spent in church, bowed before the cross. But when he'd seen his first real glimpse into the horror of the world, had ventured out of his protective bubble, he'd realized that there can't be a God. Or if there was one, He didn't care.

Because no God would've let Cas see him. The blood that had coated his shirt through the tatters. Those wide and vacant blue eyes staring just past where he was crouched behind the door. No, any God he would pray to wouldn't let that happen. And yet it did.

So he didn't pray. No, he recited what he could remember from his science classes. Drudged up random things he'd never had to use in his daily life, and said them softly under his breath. It gave him sanity. Gave him a purpose beyond lying there and crying and screaming and moaning in the boot of some psychotic's car.

Soon his voice cracked. Seemingly hours later, it gave out. And he just mouthed those words and formulas and equations and theorems and paradoxes. Forced himself to keep going, just keep going, keep going-

And, finally, he reached the end. And he started counting.

..::*::..

He stopped thinking, stopped doing anything through the stream of one two three four five six seven eight nine one two three four five six seven eight nine one two three four five six seven eight nine.

He cracked.

Kicked out against the side of the car, as useless as it was. He screamed and yelled and begged and pleaded. Soon his breaths were coming in gasps and the walls were closing in and _oh shit he was going to die_. But he didn't. And when he got nothing in response, not the car starting (when had it stopped?), or a shout to just _shut up_ or, preferably, a fucking shot in the head, he realized something.

That he was alone.

And that?

That was when he started to pray.

..::*::..

And he prayed.

..::*::..

_  
Friday, 7:37 p.m.  
_

And he prayed.

His mouth was still moving in fervent want. Not of some actual hope, no, he didn't have any of that. The prayers were simply _want_. To have that hope, to have that faith, to actually believe in God.

It was still moving when the car door opened and slammed closed. His hands were clasped in some mocking of the traditional prayer pose behind his back. He barely even recognized that something had changed, and even that realization didn't pull him out of the hole he had fallen into.

Cracks ran through him like a piece of concrete. His mind was in tatters, as surely as his brother's shirt that night. The stress, the anguish, the terror, all amalgamated into something that tore him apart. And as footsteps came closer and closer and fucking closer, whatever rational part was left tried to sew them up into something resembling sanity.

He wasn't sure how close he got.

But the trunk opened, and blinding light shone down onto him. It made him hiss and squint his eyes shut, finally disrupting whatever twisted prayers he'd been saying. 

A hand gripped his arm, dragging him roughly over the lip of the trunk. He cried out as his legs uncurled. It hurt. It really hurt. Spasms ran up and down them.

He was dropped bodily onto the floor. It was hard, nothing there to cushion his fall. This time only a whimper escaped his lips. His eyes still closed, although whether it was because of the light or fear, he didn’t know.

“Angel, angel, angel. Pretty little angel, all scared and helpless. Thirty hours in a boot, and you lose your mind? You nearly broke in there, didn’t you?”

He tried to crawl away, from the pain and that terrifying voice, but a hand grabbed him by the ankle, dragging him back. His hands scraped against the rough floor, fingers trying desperately to hold on, but succeeding in doing nothing more than breaking his nails.

“Can’t have that happening too early, can we? I’ll just have to put you back together again.”

Something pressed against his lips. He tried to shake his head, to shove away, but some still slipped inside. Cool liquid graced his tongue, and he greedily swallowed gulp after gulp until some of the fog on his brain lifted.

“Open your eyes. I want to see those baby blues, so full of fear.”

He opened them.

Those grey irises were boring straight into his own. That face looming just above him as he lay on the ground, braced by his elbows.

“What do you say, angel?”

‘What do you say?’ What did that mean? There were many things he could say. The color of the sky, the principles of quantum mechanics, the name of all the presidents, backward to forwards? What could he want? What could he _want?_

One two three four fiv-

A sharp slap across his face shocked him out of his train of thought. His entire left side stung. That same hand then grabbed the front of his shirt, pulling him up until he was nose to nose with his kidnapper.

“I gave you water, now what do you say?” There was an edge to his voice, a terrifying edge. And finally, it dawned on him.

“Th...Thank y-you.” He stammered out. The grip on his button up loosened, and he fell to the ground. His ears rang.

“Good, angel. Now get into the chair.”

He took a quick glancing look around at the place. It was pretty big, a warehouse that was mostly empty. The car was parked a couple of meters away by a closed loading bay, the trunk open. And a few feet away was a simple chair.

“Crawl to it.”

No. He wouldn’t submit like that, wouldn’t do that to himself. Finally, that sheen of unreal lifted, the tatters fully stitched together, and he thought about his position with new eyes. He was trapped, but the police know he was taken. _Dean_ knows he was taken. He just has to hold out, and they’ll find him.

“No.”

He has hope.

“_No?_” Nasally said incredulously. “Listen to me, little angel: you’re dead. Your brother wants you gone, and I’m not going to break a deal with a man who would break my _neck_ without thinkin’ twice. He gave me until Monday to show proof of your painful death, with your absolutely _broken_ body. Within three days, I’m going to kill you, and those three days can be either painful, or absolutely agonizing. So I suggest you follow my orders.”

Right, Lucifer wanted him dead. Wasn’t surprising, he was the one to testify. But it still hurt him this much, it really shouldn’t, to know his own brother hired this man to kill him. Probably knowing full well that he would be tortured. Probably hoping for it.

Not after what he’d seen.

“The police know I’m missing, they’ll find me.” _Dean will find me._ “I will not subjugate myself to you willingly.”

More fury burned cold in deadened eyes. “Well, then, this is about to get much more unpleasant for you, angel.”

Something hit him in the head, and he stopped thinking.

..::*::..

_  
Friday, 7:37 p.m.  
_

His stitches itched. They were the worst, they hurt going in, they hurt when you had them. Don’t even get him started on his they feel coming out. Tugging and sliding and _squelching_ and ugh.

At least his head wasn’t busted open anymore though. That was nice. But now he had to think about other things. Like Alastair. And Cas.

Everyone around him in the station was whirring. Seemed Witsec delegated all this back to them because, and he quotes, ‘this shitstorm is their fault, so they’re the ones to clean it up.’

He hates feds.

The most the Kansas State Police ever really deal with are stupid threats that don’t pan out, minor criminals hopping town lines. Never anything like this. The bigger stuff never ended up with them, much less with him. And on the first thing he’d handled in three years that was at all important? He fucked up. Big time.

Everyone was giving him a wide berth. Seemed the news about Alastair was spreading around, which dredged up bad memories not just for him. God, Jo had been near tears when she met him at the ER, and he had gotten about a million ‘you ok?’s from people.

"Winchester, get yourself in here." Bobby yelled to him from the door to his office. Shit, he knew exactly what was going to happen now. He walked over, head down to avoid people's glances. Maybe if he didn't see them, they wouldn't exist.

"Yeah, boss?” He asked, trying to keep his asshole persona up and running, smirking. Even he could tell it wasn’t convincing.

"I thought I ordered you to go home, take this one off?" Bobby's voice was as gruff as ever, but there was gentleness there. "Are you ignoring orders now, son?"

"The doctor cleared me for a concussion, and I thought I could be useful here. I know the most about the Demon anyways." He tagged on a little shrug, as though admitting his connection to.... _him_ was some small thing. "And I know you called Charlie, and y'know how everyone else is around her."

Charlie was amazing, the best little sister he could ever ask for. But she flirted with all the girls and was a smartass to all the guys. Kinda was the Winchester way of doing things. That combination was enough to make most people either love her, or want to punch her in the face.

"Even if I put aside the fact that one of my best officers got blindsided today, you're too involved. It's against the books."

He bit his lip. "May I speak freely?" Bobby inclined his head slightly. "Yeah, okay, it may be technically against the books for me work this case, but frankly, fuck that, I am involved. This is my fault, and Ca- Novak is the one who’s ass is on the line. So unless you're firing me or putting me on leave, I'm working this case."

For a second, he totally expected to get fired. Or at least told, not so subtly, to shove it up his ass and go the hell home. But then Bobby just sighed, rubbing a hand down his face. "You and Charlie are always like this. Damn idgits, the lot of you Winchesters. Thank god I’ve never had to deal with your brother.” His boss gave him a quick once-over. “If you think you can handle it, I would appreciate your input on the case. But if you're not, go down to Sam's, stay there for a while. We’ll find the kid, Dean."

He did want to run. Wanted to go to Sam's fancy apartment in Kansas City and drown himself in alcohol. Preferably the cheap and boozy kind. But that wouldn't get Cas safe. "I'm staying."

Bobby smiled a bit, before shaking his head. "Then get back to work, Winchester. But one slip-up, one thing showing you’re not ready to be on this case, I’ll drive your ass up to the city myself."

He fake saluted, again thankful that he got _Bobby_ as his boss, then walked back out to the floor. Where, of course, there was a bright red ball of energy already making its way through the main room and leaving destruction in her way.

“What’s up, my favorite jerk? What’s going on up here that was so important to pull me out of Kansas City? Not that I’m complaining, Sam just kept dragging me to all these gourmet juice bars. Why I decided to spend my leave with him, I’ll never know.” Charlie took a quick glance around the bustling station. “Haven’t seen this much movement out of these lazy asses since that two-for-one deal down at the coffee shop.”

She slapped him lightly on the shoulder. He flinched. Tried to cover it up. “Is it about that hot guy you were babysitting? Did you tell him about your very manly, very gay crush yet? And what the hell did you do to your head?"

"There's... There's a lot you need to know."

“What the hell is wrong with you, man? You sound like shit?” Her tone was still joking, but there was worry, and a gentleness to it that he needed and yet just couldn’t stand.

“I need to... uh, I need to treat this as colleagues, professionally, okay?” He'd said this before, three long years ago. The unspoken stuff was clear: I need to make this seem like just work shit so I can disconnect and shove my feelings deep down until I drown in whisky.

A lot of whiskey.

And beer.

Maybe some of those girly little tonic drinks with the fruit laying across the-

He could tell Charlie got it when the last bit of amusement dropped from her face, replaced with worry. “Okay, Dean. What do you need my help with?”

God, the words were choking him. But he made them as blunt as possible, shoving anything else down. Just pretend this is some nameless officer and not his sister that he was going to tell about the ruthless psycho that knocked him into a wall. “I was assigned to protect a man going into witness protection for testifying against his brother, Lucifer Novak, until the final details could be arranged by Witsec. We stayed at a safe house for the past six days, until a masked assailant broke in at about thirteen hundred hours. He hit me over the head with my service weapon until I was unconscious. When I woke up, Ca-stiel Novak was gone, and a... a sy-symbol was on the floor... in... in my... blood.”

He watched as Charlie’s faced blanched. Her red hair was stark against the sudden paleness. “Holy shit, Dean! Why the hell are you still here, you should be at home, resting, not trying to catch Alast-“

“Don’t! Don’t say his name!” He cleared his throat, steadfastly ignoring the people staring around him. “We believe that Castiel Novak was kidnapped by the... Demon. The motive is unclear, but it is likely that the attacker was for-hire, as we’d suspected for years, and is probably being paid by Lucifer Nov-”

“Are we going to talk about this? Or am I just supposed to pretend that you didn’t just get whaled on by the psychopath that captured and _tortured_ you for four fucking months?”

He grabbed Charlie’s arm, dragging her into a conference room and shutting the door. Her eyes softened, all anger quickly fleeing when she saw the look on his face.

“I’m sorry, sis, I’m so-sorry. I just... this is all my fault and... Cas is gone and I was just thinking that maybe you could track his phone or... or Al... Al... the car. I shouldn’t have called you, not when you were visiting Sam and-“

“Dean, I get it, it’s fine. Like I said, gave me an excuse to get out of our nerdy brother’s hair.” She tried a quick smile, but it faded fast. “Look, man, this isn’t your fault. It’s _not_. I’ll do everything I can to get this guy back. I am the best at tech in Kansas.”

He laughed softly, before he was dragged quickly into a bone-crushing hug. “You’re going to kick his ass, Dean, and save Novak. Damsel in distress, needing to be saved by your knightly self. It’s the perfect set-up for my gay bro.”

“‘M not gay.” He whispered into her shoulder, trying very hard to not cry. But a tear still slipped out, and he sniffled nonetheless. “‘M bi, bitch.”

Charlie giggled in that way of hers that she only did when everything was falling apart but something was still funny. He’d heard that laugh too many times. “Of course, jerk. I mean, you are just... gettin’ bi.”

“Oh, god, that one was bad, even for you.” He finally pulled away, deciding the pity snuggle had long overstayed its welcome. “At least I don’t have to endure any closet jokes anymore. Those were horrible.”

“Come on, you love ‘em.”

“Yeah,” He said with a little smile. “I do.”

He sniffed a few more times, wiped his eyes with the obligatory ‘your conditioner always makes them water,’ and slowly opened the conference room door.

“Ready to work your magic?”

She flexed her fingers, walking up to his computer. “Time to find your damsel, Dean.”

..::*::..

_  
Friday, 8:36 p.m.  
_

Thirty hours, Nasally had told him. He'd spent thirty hours locked in that trunk. Thirty hours cramped into a ball. Thirty hours alone in the dark. Thirty hours without food or water or even the dignity of a bathroom.

Thirty hours, and he broke.

He couldn't remember much of it. His mind seemed to be blocking it out, leaving only brief snippets of memory left. Waking up, crying out, counting, praying. He hadn't prayed in a year, many more since he’d said it in Latin. He could barely remember a single verse of the dead language that he'd recited during childhood. And yet, when he'd had no rational thought, they came flooding back to him.

Thirty hours.

His arms hurt. His shoulders, though, his shoulders were screaming. He'd woken up only a moment ago, felt the zip ties replaced with heavy manacles on his wrists. The length of chain between them had been thrown over a beam, suspending him high enough only the tips of his toes touched. His shoulders hadn’t burned this much since he’d taken that damn weightlifting class at the gym. He’d had to go to the hospital for tearing something in his arm.

His shoes were gone. His flannel was gone. And, somehow, those pieces of clothing were more than just fabric; they felt like armor stripped away. Like he was now open to Nasally's knife.

Dear god, please don’t let him have a knife.

Footsteps. Long, low, but there. His head whipped up as he tried to track the sound, but it echoed in the large warehouse. And, finally, Nasally stepped out of the shadows, his hands empty.

"I've been waiting, angel. Y'know, normally, I have patience. What I do, its an art. I transform something ordinary into something beautiful; something that's mine." He walked over until he was standing only a few inches away from where Castiel hung. His eyes tracing over his body. He could feel it, that look which held so much. Cas could almost taste the longing. "It’s something about the power. The fear in their eyes, as they see the knife coming closer and closer, knowing you control that. And then when they scream, that’s nice, but the whimpers and the sobs and the pleading when their dignity has left? Now that’s just absolutely delightful.

"Dean Winchester," He looked up at that, meeting Nasally's eyes. Dean._ Dean_. "Imagine my surprise when he was the one guarding you. He was always my favorite. I could do anything to him, and he just wouldn't break. Took a long, long time for that to happen, and it took... let's just say, extreme measures. That was three months in. You, you took thirty hours to crack. I'll have to be gentler with you. I don't actually want to break you, just have a spot of fun."

Four months. This psychopath had held Dean for four months. He thought of the man he'd known for only a few days, yet still felt so connected to. He put milk into the bowl before cereal, like some psychopath. It’d splash all over the counter when he poured the little circles in. He liked watching old westerns and this odd doctor soap drama. His smile was like the sun, his eyes like a forest.

Curiosity nagged at him. How could someone so strong break? Then he thought for a second, and realized he didn't want to know. Not if it was Dean. No.

His tormentor must have seen it in his face, as a slow smile spread across his lips. "Oh, you want to know, don't you? You want to know what I did to poor Dean-o to make him grovel at my feet like a dog? My own little pet?"

"No," He really didn't.

Nasally leaned in closer, until his breath was warm on his neck. He shifted his chin up, flinching away at the sudden closeness. "Is that the answer you really want to give?" His tongue flicked out, licking a long, moist stripe down his throat.

He flinched, but stayed silent. He has hope.

"You really should answer me, angel." A sharp pain went through the side of his neck, where it met his collarbone. He yelped. Nasally pulled away. "I don't like to be kept waiting."

The sight of blood on his teeth, dripping down his lips and chin, made his head spin. Shit, the guy had just bit him. He'd just bit him. God, he was going to die, he was going to die in this shitty warehouse with mouse droppings covering the floor and his body will be gone forever and-

Those lips, reddened with his own blood like some macabre lipstick, pressed to his own. A hand snakes around to grip his hair, pulling him in deeper. The kiss wasn’t sexual, or romantic. No, it was possessive. Dominating. He could taste coppery tang in his mouth. A shiver ran down the entire length of his spine when fingers carded through his hair.

_Dean will find him._

He needed to be alive when that happened.

Finally, Nasally pulled away. He could have sobbed with relief. 

"Te... tell me." He said, letting his eyes close. Just block it out. Block it all out. A tap on his cheeks, almost a reminder, made him open them again.

_Stay alive until Dean gets here._

"Good choice, angel." Nasally purred, a hand running cold fingers down his cheek gently. A caress, he realized as his stomach turned. "The first month was all about the physical. Cutting him open, burning, the like. Looking back, it was a bit unimaginative. I hadn't had quite as much practice as I do now. I learned my lesson, though. A man like Winchester doesn't break through pain, no."

He nipped his ear lightly, teeth just barely pinching, and his entire body shivered. God.

"I told him I killed his family. Showed him pictures, little Sammy's golden eyes. Poor orphan Charlie covered in blood. I didn't actually touch them, of course. Too much security and such. Simply... placeholders."

He felt sick.

"I left him alone after that. Two months with practically no food or water, and worse, no human interaction. Left in the dark of a closet, alone and believing he had killed everyone he loved. That was what drove him over the edge. By the time that blessed fourth month came around, he was pleading and begging with me to not leave him alone. Hardly even human anymore."

Grey eyes met his. And, god, he hadn't known anything so evil existed before.

"I think my favorite thing was how compliant he was. I got him to torture a few people. Not kill them, no, that would've broken him too much. But a couple of cuts on a couple of nameless bodies was alright. Some flaying, whipping. Nothing too hard. Even got him to cut himself, my own brand carved into his chest. And I didn't even have to pick up the blade; he did it all himself."

Holy shit. He couldn't imagine Dean.... _Dean_....

"Now, we're on a time limit here. Three days really only gives me enough time to do one thing, one amazing session, and then I have to kill you."

_Dean will find me. Dean will find me. Dean will find-_

And then, he took something out of his pocket.

“We are going to have so much fun, little angel.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings:   
Torture  
Non-consensual kissing  
Extremely brief suicidal thoughts
> 
> Thanks for reading! Please kudo, comment, or subscribe if you enjoyed!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey. This one is a little bit shorter, but tomorrow's is extra long to make up for it. Thanks for reading!
> 
> Warnings in end notes.

_ Friday, 8:52 p.m. _

“We are going to have so much fun, little angel.”

Castiel couldn’t stop his eyes from flicking to the small pen that Alastair was holding. It seemed innocuous enough, blue. Hardly an ‘I’m a psychopath and I’m going to kill you’ kind of weapon.

“What’re you going to do to me?” He asked warily, wincing slightly at how rough his voice was.

“Well, you’re an angel. It’s only fair I give you wings.” Oh, shit, that didn’t sound ominous at all. Especially not, coming from a man who kidnapped him and is currently holding a pen like it’s a some kind of tool; some way to hurt him.

He walked slowly around his suspended body. Cas tried to follow the movement with his eyes, but quickly he got out of his peripheral. That only made his breathing faster, panic kicking into hyperdrive.

A hand reached around, a finger drifting lightly across his lips. He flinched, barely able to keep himself from biting it off. That hand then trailed down to his throat, pressing deep into one of the bruises there. Another grabbed his hair, pulling his entire head back with a grunt.

He stared into grey irises. “Even your eyes are angelic. Tearful, wide in fear.”

The hand around his throat and the one in his hair slinked away. They resettled on the top of his shirt’s neckline, then started ripping downwards. He winced at the loud sound echoing through the warehouse.

His chest was soon bare, shirt ripped apart and tossed in a corner, which he tried very hard not to look at. He couldn’t help it. A bit of blood coated it from the... wound on his neck. He’d very much liked that shirt, though. It was a nice color and soft.

“We’re going to take this slow, okay? You already have a crack, and I don’t want you breaking.” There was a genuine ounce of concern in his voice. It terrified him that that, of all things, was what this monster was concerned about.

“Then let me go.” He shot back, hoping the words sounded more forceful and less begging. Although, those pleas were just on the tip of his tongue. Only his own pride and dignity held them back. 

“I can’t do that, angel. Morningstar wants you dead, and I’m not risking crossing him. The only reason you’re not dead is that he asked me to do it slowly.” God, he knew his brother hated him, but to not only hire someone to kill him, hire a sadist to torture _then_ kill him? That took hatred. And he doesn’t know what he did to deserve something like that. Actually, he knows exactly what he did, and wouldn't change a thing. "To let you suffer."

A hand rested on his shoulder, thumb moving in slow circles. A soothing motion that did the exact opposite. "Before Dean, I didn't quite grasp the concept of pain, _true_ pain. I knew how to make someone hurt in a physical way, yes, make someone go just mad with agony. But Morningstar, he asked for something very specific. It's the reason he came to me. It's kind of my specialty now."

The hand drifted down to rest on his upper arm, as though it was bracing him. "He wanted you to feel physical pain, yes. He was very enthusiastic about that." Skin brushed his side, and he flinched. Fuck.

He could only watch as his fist drew back and hit him right on his ribs. He gasped, swinging a bit. And he was hit again. And again. The kidnapper pounded into him with his fists. The kind of punches that packed enough force to kill someone if you went at it long enough. He managed to not scream. At least, he didn't until he felt his rib snap.

God, the pain was more than he had ever felt. It radiated down his entire side, worse every time he breathed. He sucked in breathy gasp after breathy gasp, shuddering at the feeling of Nasally's hand rubbing his arm.

"Please let... me d-... down." He breathed out, fighting the whimper that climbed the back of his throat. The muscles connected to his shoulder stretched his side, making the pain that much worse. He felt like he was going to pass out.

"I'm sorry, angel, but I can't. You need to be well restrained for this." A small sob escaped him. "Just breathe, in and out."

He realized he'd been nearly hyperventilating, his head spinning and the world dancing. He couldn't help but lean back into his captor's half-embrace. In and out. In and out.

Soon the pain lessened to a sharp throb, and the room wasn't one of those dreaded roller coasters Michael used to make him go on. He could breathe, slightly. Finally, Nasally let him go, and he could only tremble where he was suspended.

"There you go, angel. Just keep breathing like that, and we can go onto the next step." _Dean will find me. Dean will find me_. "Physical pain is unpleasant, but emotional pain, mental pain, is so much worse. You already felt what it was like to crack. Morningstar, well, he has expectations."

Nasally strode back in front of him, grabbing his chin. He lifted it up, until Cas was forced to look him straight in the eyes. Those cold, dead eyes. "He told me exactly what to do, and exactly what he would do to me if I didn't."

His hand reached into a pocket and pulled out the pen. He walked over to a stray pallet in the corner, and grabbed a discarded coffee cup. Probably somebody's long ago littered trash. He started to take the pen apart, carefully dumping the ink inside it. Cas half-watched through blurry vision.

The pen was emptied fast, and Nasally grabbed another from his pocket. And another. By the time he was done, there was the ink of five pens in that coffee cup. It was filled nearly halfway. Nasally grabbed it and set it down on the ground in front of Castiel.

"He said you were religious." This made Cas look up, blinking rapidly to see. Why would Lucifer had told him that? It made no sense. "That you believed in God and Christ and angels." Nasally smiled at the last one, a sharp and wicked thing. It was terrifying to see. "He wanted to strip that from you. Leave you alone and frightened before you died, without the certainty that you would go to Heaven or Hell. Or, even better, that God had abandoned you."

"Why... why are you telling me this, then?" He asked slowly. It didn't make sense.

"I heard you in the car. When your mind shattered, you prayed. All in Latin. If you still had your religion, you would have prayed much before that. Your brain was simply reverting back to what it had known and found comfort in before, when your conscious couldn't handle reality. I've seen it before."

Slowly, he withdrew a long, thin knife from his pocket. It was brutally sharp, glinted in the faint light of the warehouse. _In and out. In and out. Dean will find me._

"No, this won't make you lose your faith. You already have. Exactly what I was asked for." He closed his eyes, willing this to all go away. That he was back in his dorm room at college, writing on some old and glitchy laptop about angels and humans for his class. That none of this was real.

A hand tapped on his cheek. "Come on, angel, let me see those eyes." And, shit, he did open them. The pain in his side made it too visceral to lose himself anyways. "That blue, it's, what's the word... ethereal? They're beautiful, when you are in so, _so_ much pain. Don't close them."

The finger drifted down his throat, poking at the slightly-scabbed-but-still-open bite mark. It dug in, enough that he gasped. Then it continued its journey, tracing around his arms. Nasally moved back behind him, taking the cup with him. The silence was deafening. Cas tried to peer behind him, jerking his arms in an impossible attempt to get free, but a heavy hand on his rib (_god,_ it hurt so much) made the message clear: don't watch, don't move, or something much worse will happen.

So he hung there, staring blankly at the opposite wall. He tried to forget Nasally's arm wrapped around his chest, the warm breath against his neck. That he was with Luke and Michael and Gabe at some movie theater when he was a child. The thrill of seeing a different world come alive on the screen, the beauty of it.

The illusion didn't last for long, though, and he was quickly brought back to reality by a piercing pain right at the top of his spine. It stung, pinched in an agonizing line. He inhaled sharply, but bit his tongue to keep in anything else. He knew exactly what was happening. 

His back arched away, he flinched and trembles and claws at the arm. But it’s like a vice across his chest, and soon the fight bleeds out and he can only slump in the chains.

And as the knife sliced into him again, he felt himself crack just a little bit more.

..::*::..

_  
Saturday, 5:09 p.m.  
_

"Alastair Mortenson is extremely dangerous, probably armed, and has the tendencies of a sociopath. He finds pleasure in causing the pain of others, whether that pain is physical or not. He has escaped capture for over five years, and has likely been working as a contract killer for more. We believe he is currently serving one Lucifer Novak, an escaped prisoner who was found guilty of the murder of his brother, Michael Novak, last week. Mortenson currently has Castiel Novak as a hostage."

Dean looked back down at the sheet that was covered in notes. Apparently, since he had been on Alastair's case the longest, he was the one who should brief the other officers. He could feel everyone's eyes on him, all his colleagues using their training to see if he was about to break.

And, honestly? He wasn't that far off from it. 

"We do not have a location on either Novaks' whereabouts, nor on Mortenson. Be advised on your rounds, keep careful watch, and report any suspicious activity back here. Stay safe, everyone."

He watched as all the officers grabbed their stuff and filed slowly out of the room. His hand was shaking where it was resting on the podium. He wanted to run out of there, go all the way back to his house and just _sleep_ for days and eternity. He could feel a crack forming just at the back of his mind, where nothingness and compliance was starting to take over.

"Dean?" Heard Charlie ask quietly next to him. He startled, not noticing she was there. "You okay?"

Cleared his throat. Was pretty sure words wouldn't have come out of his mouth otherwise. "'m fine. Just tired."

"We've been here over twelve hours, jerk. Of course you're tired." Shit, had it been that long already? The time had flown in a mess of paperwork, headaches, and trauma. He hadn't gotten a wink of sleep last night. Come to think of it, in the last two days. "Come on, I'll drive you home."

Baby was still parked at the apartment, since Jo drove him to the station. He wouldn't have been able to get home without a ride anyways. Still, the idea of being stuck in a car with someone is not what he wants to do at the moment. Especially when that someone is his sister. But he did need to get home.

"Yeah, thanks, Charlie." He grabbed the debrief he'd just given, written out word for word on that piece of paper, and threw it in the trash on the way out. If he had his way, he'd never have to even think about him again.

Although tonight promised a boatload more terrifying flashbacks that his last sleep, under the influence of at least three drugs, hadn't given him. Which he was so looking forward to.

The ride was mostly silent, so it didn't take him long to pass out in the passenger seat. And he was almost instantly confronted with knives and fire and whips and screaming, everyone was screaming at him to stop just stop. There was Sam and Charlie laid out on a metal table, as his own hand sliced into them again and again and again. And there was Castiel. He was pleading and begging _let me go, please Dean, don't do this_ but he still ripped into his skin over and over, blood dripping a hot trail like fire on his hand and _no, no, not that, anything but-___

_ _"Dean!" He shocked awake to a hand shaking his shoulder, and Charlie's worried voice floating to him. "You alright? You were..."_ _

_ _She trailed off, but they both knew what she heard anyways. Screaming. Whimpering. She'd heard it enough times in the past years. That didn't make his cheek flush with shame any less._ _

_ _"Sorry."_ _

_ _His quiet apology was met with a glare strong enough it could have killed him easily. "Shut it, jerk. Don't you dare start with that shit again." He bit his lip to keep from apologizing again. They both knew he had a habit of doing that when his past was brought up. At least he’d dropped the instinctive ‘sir.’ "You, uh, you said Novak's name as well."_ _

_ _"I... I did?"_ _

_ _"The whole ‘little’ crush thing you had on him, it's a bit more than that, isn't it?"_ _

_ _"Maybe... yeah." He said, certain he must be as red as a tomato. "It's ridiculous, I know. I mean, I've had like one real conversation, I met him a week ago, _and_ I got him kidnapped. There's no way that can actually... turn into anything, right? I'm just going insane."_ _

_ _"Oh, come on, love at first sight, man! It does exist!" Charlie smiled, putting the car into park. "I can hear it in your voice, Dean. If he feels half as much as you do..." She waggled her eyebrows and god he loved her so much._ _

_ _He laughed, feeling better than he had in days. Maybe everything would be alright. He’d get Cas back, tell him how he feels. Beyond that... he’d never exactly had a stable relationship. Most in the past years were scared off by his, um, eccentricities. _ _

_ _But maybe Cas would be different. He just had to find him first. His hands were itching to look through the crime scene reports again, or the local traffic cams, maybe take Baby and swing back around to the station-_ _

_ _He looked out the window._ _

_ _"Why the hell are we at Sam's house, Charlie?" He shot at her accusingly. At least she had the dignity to look a little shameful._ _

_ _"He wanted to see you, and you need a break. Tell me you would've had a wink of real sleep tonight otherwise." She opened the door, climbing out. "You've been up for over a day, Dean. And as the last hour showed, I doubt any sleep you'd get otherwise could be called 'restful'"_ _

_ _As much as he hated to admit it, a night at Sam's sounded absolutely amazing. Just a few hours where he wouldn't have to think about anything police related or... _him_ related. It was selfish and stupid and Cas was relying on him to get him out of Hell —and it was Hell —but his brain was fried and he didn’t think he could be sane another second without some real rest. _ _

_ _"Alright, but only if we eat actual food for dinner, and none of that rabbit shit stuff." He got out of the car, and they both started walking to the house. "And I get to pick the movie. We both know that Sam would just pick some nerdy-ass docu-drama." Last time it'd been something about the Kansas Penal System, and he was never sitting through that again._ _

_ _The door opened, and Sam barely had a second to look shocked before pulling him almost immediately into a hug. He tried to not sink into it, and is pretty sure that he totally failed. For the first time in the past few days, he actually felt safe. A single tear slipped down his face and dripped into Sam's shirt. No one mentioned it. _ _

_ _"Hey bitch."_ _

_ _"Hey jerk."_ _

_ _"Sam?" He heard Jess call from another room. She sounded miserable. They finally pulled apart, silently promising each other to never speak of it again. "Is someone here?"_ _

_ _"Yeah, just Dean and Charlie. You good if they stay?" Sam shouted back. _ _

_ _“Of course, just don’t scare them away with your-“ She cut off, and they could hear the gagging all the way out in the foyer._ _

_ _Sam just looked over worriedly, before clearing his throat and looking at him. "How're you doing, man? I heard about-"_ _

_ _"Fine, 'm fine." He ignored how scratchy his voice was. Sam raised an eyebrow._ _

_ _“Dean, you can’t pull that shit with me. How are you actually?” _ _

_ _He gave Sam a long glance, which meant ‘like absolute shit and hanging on by a thread but I can’t deal with it right now.’ His brother just nodded slightly._ _

_ _"Charlie kidnapped me and drove me here while I was sleeping. I'm thinking of charging her."_ _

_ _"Hope we're not intruding?" Charlie said from behind him. "He needed some R&R stat, and I knew you would be happy to host. Sorry." She didn't sound sorry one bit._ _

_ _"Yeah, yeah, of course you're not. You guys are always welcome here, you know that." He motioned for them to come into the living room. "Sorry Jess isn’t here to say hi. The whole morning sickness thing seems to be more of an ‘all day, all the time' thing. Doctors prescribed some anti-emetics, but they're not helping much. She’s not really up for visitors. I’m just going to go check on her.” _ _

_ _Sam ran out of the room, bounding up the narrow steps with far more grace than a man of his size ought to have. Through everything that had happened, all that he’d been through, it was hard to imagine that Sam was having a baby. He was going to be an uncle. God, if there was one thing he thought of to get him through this, it was meeting his little brother's baby girl. Or boy, Sam kept insisting, but Dean was pretty sure. Jess agreed with him. _ _

_ _Soon enough, he came back down, looking a little green around the edges himself. “How is she?”_ _

_ _“Fine, which really means miserable. She said to tell you she’s sorry she can’t make it, but doesn’t want to puke all over you and our new rug.” Sam ran a hand down his face. “And that I shouldn’t scare you with baby stuff. Apparently, it’s annoying, even, quote: ‘when my ass is the one with the baby in it.’”_ _

_ _Dean couldn’t help but chuckle a bit. Jess was amazing, and he couldn’t have hoped for a better girl for his brother. _ _

_ _“You do have a bit of an... obsession, Sammy. How’s the nursery coming along?” Charlie added with a little knowing wink. His brother had been petrified at the thought of building a nursery, which led to a whole lot of procrastination._ _

_ _A faint blush rose in his cheeks. “It’s coming. What were you thinking of doing here anyways? Not exactly the most exciting house at the moment." _ _

_ _"New topic much?” When Sam didn’t respond, Charlie just gave a longsuffering sigh. “Maybe a movie? Dean hasn't gotten his much-needed nerd-fix in the last few days." She launched herself at the sofa, landing with an _omph_._ _

_ _"I taped this really awesome one about the influence of whales' echolocation on the various marine-"_ _

_ _"_boooooring._" Charlie shouted, lying down. Drama queen._ _

_ _Sam's sigh was just so done. "Star Wars again?"_ _

_ _"Yep!" She said. "Bring it on, bitch!"_ _

_ _Sam started the movie, finding the DVD where he’d probably hidden it after last time. It was always the movie of choice from anyone who was normal during movie night. After it was playing, his brother grabbed his shoulder, dragging him gently off the couch and into the kitchen. Charlie looked at them out of the corner of her eye, but didn't comment._ _

_ _“What’re you doing, Sam?” He said softly, pulling his arm out of the grip. _ _

_ _“Making popcorn. Kind of important, if we’re doing movie night.”_ _

_ _“And I’m here because....?”_ _

_ _His brother sighed, putting the little packet in the microwave before throwing a hand through his hair. “I’m worried about you, Dean. It’s been three years and you just got to a good point, working field again-"_ _

_ _"If you could call what I was doing 'field.'" Dean interrupted, more to divert the conversation than anything. "You can only rescue a cat from a tree and bust the same five kids in a twenty-mile radius for smoking weed so many times." _ _

_ _His brother seemed to ignore his comment. "You’ve recovered in a way no one expected. The doctors, the psychologists, they all said it was unlikely you could even function in society, much less go back to working, especially as a police officer.”_ _

_ _“Sam.” He said, a bit warningly. This wasn’t something he wanted to talk about right now . His brother just continued though. _ _

_ _“They recommended a long term care facility, Dean. You, you didn't recognize me, or Charlie, or Bobby. But you got through that, all of it." His brother took a deep breath, emotions warring in his eyes. "I- Just, tell me that working this case isn’t going to trigger you. Tell me it’s not going to undo all the work you’ve done?” _ _

_ _He could only look into Sam’s hazel eyes. After Dad died, when all the secrets and lies he'd told caught up with him and a cop killed him, shot his head clean through when he robbed a bank at gunpoint, they'd promised each other something. No secrets, no lies. If one of them was in some deep shit, they would get out together. Sam got away from Ruby, with the abuse and her drugs, in college. Charlie found a job where she wouldn't have to be breaking the law to hack. And they got him out of Hell. Pieces him back from shattered nothing. He wasn't about to break that promise now._ _

_ _He shook his head slightly. “I can’t. But I need to do this, and not just for the guy I got kidnapped. For me, too.” _ _

_ _“What he did to you... You don’t remember what you looked like when you were first in the hospital. It was...” His brother took in a shaky breath. “You weren’t human.” _ _

_ _A chill ran down his spine. “I’m not going to lose myself again, I won’t let that happen. But I need to do this.” _ _

_ _The beep of the microwave went off, and the moment was broken as he moved to bring the popcorn back into the other room. He ignored his brother's stare on his back. The soft calling of his name. He'd made his decision, and he'd be damned if Sam was going to change his mind. _ _

_ _That night, with the movie still playing in the background, he fell asleep drooling on Sam's shoulder. He didn't dream of Alastair, or knives, or whips. No, he dreamt of Castiel's blue eyes looking into his lovingly. Of finding him whole and safe, building a life together. Everything now was a dark stain on a distant past._ _

_ _It was the first good sleep he'd had in days._ _

_ _

_ __ _

..::*::..

_  
Saturday, 5:36 p.m.  
_

His world was pain. He could barely think past his back and his throat and his side and everything just screaming at him. All down his spine were deep stinging cuts and flays, burning through him.

He'd never felt anything this excruciating. Didn't even know something _could_ be. 

So far, it'd been only the knife. It'd made tracks all across his back, curving across his shoulder. Blood dripped down until it hit his boxers, wiped away occasionally with his own shirt used as a rag. At some point, his pants has been thrown in the corner with his coat.

For the most part, he had hovered between consciousness and not. Everything was grey, bled out. The world spun, probably blood loss. But his mind hung on stubbornly, refusing to surrender to black. He really wished it would just give up. 

"P...please." He tried again, whispering through cracked lips. Nasally had never listened to him, simply smiled or laughed. "I... 's hurts." 

"Shhhh, my angel. We're almost done." The arm that had been wrapped around his chest loosened a bit, allowing his hand to rub small circles right by his ribs. He struggled slightly, but pain shooting through him made him stopped. Nasally's chin rested on his shoulder, and he whimpered. "Just breathe." 

"Get... get 'way from 'e" His words slurred through heavy lips. "Let me 'o" 

"Five minutes, and we're done with the knife. Five more minutes." 

His world dissolved into a mess of pain again. He tried to inhale, exhale through the continuous onslaught, but it was too much, and the world bloomed into white. A scream ripped out of him, his back arched, and everything was lost in black. 

Liquid dribbling past his lips woke him up again. He drunk it greedily, pulling as much as he can from the bottle before it was pulled away. He whined, trying to follow the plastic. A hand on his cheek stopped him. 

"Eyes, angel." 

They opened without him even thinking about it. Grey eyes met his. 

"It's over, the knife at least. I'm going to let you down, okay?" He reached up, and Cas felt the constant pressure on his shoulders let up. He slumped forward, only not falling because of Nasally's arms wrapping around him and lowering him down to the floor. He wanted to leave the forced embrace, but could only cringe away slightly

"Please..." It slipped past his lips before he could stop it. He was laid down on the ground. He tried to crawl away, but just couldn't get himself to move. He was so tired. The room was spinning, and the pain was nearly overwhelming. 

"Stay there, angel. Don't move, and it'll be over soon." Something burning dripped onto his back. He yelped, writhing on the ground. Ink, his mind supplied him. It was ink, from all those pens emptied into a cup.

"S...stop!" He coughed out. Nasally simply put a hand on his shoulder, enough to keep him rooted in place. It only served to make him feel more helpless, knowing that was all it took to restrain him. "You... you b-bastard!" 

"It's okay, angel. I'm just doing this, and then we're done for a while." The acid was on his skin again, and he couldn't hold back the scream. It hurt, it hurt so fucking badly. And then he put his hand there and _rubbed_ it in. 

"Shit, _shit!_" He cried out. He writhed, felt the cold ground scrape against his bare chest. Everything was fire and he just couldn't, could't handle it. 

He blacked out again.

..::*::..

_  
Sunday, 9:36 a.m.  
_

A dark shape flirted across the edge of his vision. Everything was swirling, too bright colors and sounds. It felt nauseating. 

He retched. 

Slowly he was pulled closer and closer to consciousness. He fought tooth and nail to stay under, away from the pain and Nasally and everything that his life had become. But his mind didn’t listen. 

He blinked. Tried to clear black spots from his eyes. Everything ached and hurt and he was so thirsty and his boxers were filthy and he was just so _tired_, so so tired. There had been a dream. It lurked on the corner of his memory. Green eyes, grey eyes, black eyes. Burning and knives and chains and-

He retched again. 

Breathed. Took a moment to clear his head and try to think through the thick cottony fog. He was alone, at least for the moment. A miracle in itself. He was tied up in that chair, ropes burning around his wrists. 

Another memory flashed before his eyes. Crawling pitifully across the floor until he sat himself down in this seat. Whimpering at the pressure it put on his back. 

He couldn’t stop a tear from sliding down his face. 

He’d given in. He’d broken. 

Thirty hours in the car. Whatever eternity had transpired now. And Dean had somehow, someway, lasted three months. Three fucking months of this. Of things worse than this.

And if Dean could do it, he was damned if he was going to give up. Dean was out there. _Dean will find me. _

He will get out of here.

He thrashed in his bindings. They were strong, held him easily. But the coarse rope dug into his wrists, making blood pool out of the skin. That was what he needed. 

Soon they slid easier across the bone. He tugged and pulled and yelped and whimpered and finally he got one hand free of those bindings. The blood had been enough to make him able to slide his hand out. 

Minutes later and his other was free too. And suddenly he was faced with possibilities. He didn’t have a plan beyond get out. He needed help. 

He stumbled over to his discarded pants, knees nearly buckling, and rifled through the pockets. Nasally could be back any minute. Any minute and he’d be tied up and punished. 

But his hands closed around the small square of plastic, and he could have cried with relief. Instead he laughed, softly, and turned it on. Typed in the first number that came to mind. 

‘Gabriel Novak’ the small screen read. 

_Please answer, please answer, please answer-_

“Cas-Cassie?”

And, then, he did cry. Tears streamed down his face as he clutched his one salvation tighter to his cheek.

“Gabe?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings:  
Torture
> 
> Kudos and comments are always amazing!!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is chapter four!
> 
> Warnings in end notes.

_ Sunday, 9:02 a.m, _

The grey police building in front him made his hands tremble again. Everyone was in there; his colleagues, his friends. He wasn't sure he could take another day of pitying stares and not-so-inconspicuous whispers. 

His neck hurt from where it had kinked sleeping on Sam’s couch. His back had cracked enough he was worried it was broken. He wasn’t exactly young anymore. 

As much as he tried, Cas’ face kept coming back to him. Blue eyes, either smothered with love or covered in fear, stared up at him. Sometimes blood stained his hands. 

He just wanted to forget all of this; _him_, the past three years. The constant fear and worry and feeling that someone was watching him. Go back to before, being a top officer and having a loving family. 

"If you don't think you can do it..." Charlie said next to him, looking at his hands worriedly. "No one's going to judge you if you take leave." 

He clutched his fingers into fists. "I'm fine. I need to... I need to do this." 

"There's a reason the book says you can't get involved, Dean. Especially when you're a-" 

"A what? A victim? A _perp_?! A fucking sadist who got off on ripping people's skin off?!" He stopped walking, turning to her. Fear that quickly morphed into frustration was flowing through him as the dam he'd tried desperately to shore up collapsed. "You don't know what I did. What I, I..." 

"It wasn't your fault, Dean. I saw what he did to you. If you hadn't, hadn't- if you didn't do that, you would have died!" 

"So what? I'm worth more than the man I cut? The woman I flayed down to the bone? Or the little boy who, who-" His vision was tunneling. He couldn't see anything but the bright fire of Charlie's hair cascading down her shoulders. Colors merged and flowed into a river, a river he was slowly drowning in. 

His breath caught in his throat, a pressure slowly forming on his chest that he just couldn't breathe through. Gasp after gasp ripped through, but nothing actually got to his brain. There was red everywhere, on his hands, on the asphalt. It dripped and dripped and dripped and dripped and-

"-eathe, fuck man! You need to breathe!" Hands were clutching at his uniform, and he held onto that. Latched onto that one materiel object to bring him out of the water. His sister was there, his brother. Cas. He needed to get through this, for them. 

Slowly his lungs loosened, and he breathed in breath after breath. His vision came back. The feeling of the parking lot burning through his slacks. Hands clutching his shoulder, pulling him into an embrace. 

Which he scrambled out of, forcing his breathing to stay an even in out in out. That was Charlie, just Charlie. Charlie who was alive. Who worked in the IT department and lived in Kansas City and was a raging nerd and lesbian. Got a tattoo of Princess Leia straddling a D&D die when she was drunk that she swore she’d never let him see. She was here, next to him. 

He grabbed his phone, pulling it out with hands trembling so much he almost dropped it. Dialed.

"Sa... Sam?" 

"Dean? What's going on?" 

He stumbled back to the open door, sitting back down in Charlie's car. "No...Nothing. I'm fine, just wanted, wanted.... never mind, bitch, sorry." 

Hung up, put his head in his hands. 

_He's alive, he's alive. Charlie's alive. They're alive._

"Dean? Y'alright?" He glanced back into her eyes, wide open in fear. 

“‘M fine.” 

“Was it a flashback?” 

“It was nothing, nothing. Just, let’s just go to work, okay?” He pleaded, standing up from the seat. “They called us in on our off-day for a reason,” Not that he wouldn’t have come in anyways. 

“Dean, we can’t just pretend you’re alright!” He watched as his sister reached out, almost touching his arm, before stopping. “Please, I’m worried for you.” 

He stopped. “Charlie, I love you, and Sam. I can’t... I can’t imagine how hard all this has been for you. But I need to do this. I can’t let him, can’t let _Alastair_, break me.” He let out a loud breath through his nose, forcing everything away as he settled his hand on his sister’s arm. 

She looked worriedly at his fingers clutching her t-shirt. “Are you sure you can do this?” 

“Yes,” He smirked, sending a little wink. “bitch.”

“You’ll be the death of me one day.” She said, shaking her head. The worry was still there, though. She kept casting little glances out of the corner of her eye that he’d have to be dumb not to see.

They both walked into the station together. He forced himself to ignore the pairs of eyes on him, keep his head up and looking resolutely towards the far wall. Just breathe, breathe, breathe-

Something grabbed his shirt, turning him around. He lashed out instinctively. His hand grabbed the person's shoulder, wrenching himself out of his grip. He stumbled back, nearly falling as he hit someone's desk. His breathing was already ratcheting up into a frenzy and the world spinning a bit. 

"It's all your fault, you stupid son of a bitch!" The man who's grabbed him shouted, taking a menacing step forward. Before Benny grabs the person's hands, pulling them back and handcuffing him. Now that he had more control, he recognized the shorter guy. Gabriel Novak. Cas' brother. 

"I told you, one more problem and I’m arresting your smart ass. Think assaulting an officer counts, Novak. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and-" 

“Get your huge paws off me, lumbering fucking asshole!” Gabriel yelled at the same time Dean jumped in.

"Benny, un-cuff him." He forced himself to stand up straighter, and act like someone who was in control. And he was. Totally. "I'm not pressing charges." 

"Dean-" Charlie started, but a quick look he sent her way was enough to make her stop. _I've got this. I know what I'm doing._

"Press all the charges you want on me, bucko. It's not going to change the fact that you got my brother fucking kidnapped!" Gabriel pulled his arms out of the handcuffs the moment he could, taking a few steps forward until they were chest to chest. He fisted both hands in his shirt, pulling them even closer. "He... You... You were supposed to keep him safe and now- now he's been taken by some psychopath and-" 

Gabriel stared him down, eyes blinking rapidly which did nothing against the moisture in those burning irises. Dean could feel himself spiraling down and down as more and more thoughts flooded him. You left Cas to be kidnapped. You caused it. You should have done more. You should have been better. 

"It took, took three days for them to tell me anything beyond that something happened, and even then they just said you would explain it. Some bullshit about you being the commanding officer. It took days to pry out of this bastard here,” He shoves his thumb back at Benny. “That some sadist took him, and then I saw you, exactly as Cassie, as he described you." Cas talked about him to his brother? "And I just- just-" 

He forced himself to keep his face straight, to not give away how much his words burned into him. How close he was to just fully falling off the edge. "You're right, Mr. Novak. I am- there, there aren't words to-" Oh fuck, look at him, choking when trying to apologize for just how much he fucking messed up. 

"I want to know what's going on." Gabriel finally said after a few moments of awkward silence. "Who's this Alastair? What could he want with Cassie?" His world started spinning again. Fuck, Alastair. 

"Let's move this into Conference Room One." Charlie piped up. Gabriel blinked, looking down to where his hands were still clutching his uniform. The fists slowly loosened, until they were slack at the man's side. 

"Yeah, yeah, Charlie." He said, shaking himself. With one last look at Gabriel, he followed his sister into the larger room. If he wanted to follow, he would. And Dean was pretty sure he would, what with the fact it was Cas he would learn about. 

He sent Charlie a quick nod of thanks. He wasn't sure he would've been able to keep his cool if he'd had to stay in that room one more second, with everyone staring at him. They were his friends, but they were treating him more like a victim. 

He forced himself to sit, keep his hands clasped in front of him and his face neutral. To slip back into the role of being lead investigator on a case. He was Officer Dean Winchester, serving his first active duty case about a man who was taken from witness protection. Nothing more. 

"Dean? You sure you can do this?” Charlie asked, putting a hand lightly on his shoulder. 

"No, no. I'm doing this.” 

“I can get Benny to-"

“I’m the commanding officer on this case, and this is one of the responsibilities of that position. Thank you, Charlie, but I’m fine. Right now, I just need to do my job.”

Gabriel did follow, finally sitting down across from him with a slight huff. Having perfected it himself, Dean could tell that the slightly-annoyed-and-overall-an-asshole act he's putting on is a total facade. His hands were shaking where they were clasped in his lap, wringing around a cellphone. There was genuine terror in his eyes. 

"Mr. Novak-" 

"Gabriel." 

"Okay, uh, Gabriel," Dean started, forcing his mind to clear. "What do you know?" 

"Castiel was taken by some asshole called Alastair, and that you're the one in charge of the case. That's all my supervisor would tell me." Gabe put on a little smirk that was as fragile as glass. "So are you going to explain to me who that asshole is, or is your friend going to have to put me in handcuffs again for 'assaulting an officer?'" 

Charlie muttered something behind him, pinching the bridge of her nose. She was worried, probably about him. As much as he was trying, that bottomless pit of guilt was just a small step away. 

“I was the, uh, the officer in charge of your brother. On Thursday, a man broke into our safe house, and knocked me out. He took Castiel. I identified the inturder as Ala- a known criminal, and we are working to find him, Cas, and Lucifer.” His voice was shaking by the end. He tried to ignore that. 

“So you were the one that let a dangerous criminal, one your own officers described as being practically the devil, into a safe house. Then managed to let my brother be... what? Taken? Fucking kidnapped?” Gabriel stood up, slamming his hands down on the table. Dean flinched. “You... you were supposed to keep him safe, away from all this shit. After ev-everything he’s been through... that was your fucking job!” 

“Sit the hell down, man. You don’t know anything-“ Charlie started, but Dean cut her off. 

“You’re right, about all of it. I let Cas be taken, managed to be knocked out by a single fucking blow to the head. I let... Alastair.... take him. I let your brother be taken by a sick psycho. You have every right to be angry, to beat me up. Hell, punch me right here! I won’t stop you. It’ll never make up for what I did.” 

“Dean, it’s not your fault.” His sister murmured behind him. God, he was thankful for her. Even if she was wrong, even if it was just some attempt to make him feel better, it was nice to have someone on his side. “He pistol-whipped you, hit you hard enough that you needed stitches. Not to mention everything else.” 

“It doesn’t matter, Charlie.” He said quietly, resolutely ignoring Gabriel’s eyes on him. “I know what he can do. And Cas... Cas shouldn’t have to live through that. No one should.” 

A silence filled the room, crackling with tension. Dean just wanted to run out of there and never, ever come back. Both to this job and everything else. He wanted to have fun with Sam and Charlie, be able to ask Cas out on a date. God, they’d barely even talked, and now... who knows what it’s going to be like now? 

And it was all his fault. 

"What happened?" Gabriel asked quietly. “This is my little brother, I’ve been given the runaround for days. Please, just tell me." 

He ignored Charlie's pointed look, telling him to not say anything, probably for both his own reasons and because he could lose his job over this. But when did he ever do what he was supposed to, especially when it was about this shitshow? "We suspect the man who took Castiel is for hire, that your brother paid him to... kill. He is the main witness in his case. But Al- Alastair... he doesn't just kill."

He watched the man's eyes widen almost comically, if anything could be funny about this situation. "What does he do?" whispered. 

"He... he tortures them. Breaks them, before they die. He gets some kind of sick, twisted pleasure from it." His voice shook, but held. "Your brother, he didn't just want Cas dead; he wanted him completely _gone_, broken before he died." 

The man's already drawn face paled with each word, until his complexion matched that of the white wall behind him. His mouth opened and closed, fear drawing stark lines down the angles of his face. 

Just as Dean was about to continue, a phone rang. Everyone in the room jumped, Gabriel throwing the phone onto the table. It buzzed there, moving slightly with it. 

“It’s Cassie.” Gabriel whispered, his hand ghosting over the screen. As though he was worried that if he touched it, it would disappear. “He’s calling.” 

Charlie practically ran around the table, grabbing the phone and going out of the conference room. “I can track it, if he is calling. I can find him.” 

Dean quickly followed her, tears of relief welling up in his eyes. It’s Cas, Cas is alive. He’s calling, he’s safe. After everything, the guy is still alive! 

“Everyone, give me some space and stay fucking quiet!” Charlie shouted as she plugged the phone into her computer. With a glance back at them, a harried look in her eyes, she clicked the answer button. 

There were a few moments of total silence filled only with heavy breathing from the room and Charlie’s fingers clacking on the keyboard. The eyes of the few weekend officers on desk duty were on the phone. 

“Cas? Cassie?” Gabriel finally asked, his voice tentative and shaky. 

“Gabe?” 

Oh god, he sounded horribly. His words were thin and reedy, but it was Cas. He was alive, alive and conscious. Seemingly in one piece. It was more than he could have hoped for. 

“The police are tracing the call now, they’re going to find you. We’re going to find you!” Gabe practically shouted into the phone. “Are you okay? Oh, god, Cas-“ 

“I’m fine, fine Gabe.” He was lying. “Nothing too bad, nothing that won’t heal. Have they... have they found Luke?” 

“....they’re still looking, Cassie. It’s not over.” The key clacking finally ended, as Charlie shouted. 

“I’ve got it!” 

“Harvelle, Lafitte, take a car and go to that address. Tran, notify the town’s police.” The officers scrambled to follow his orders, and soon they were alone. He took a shaky breath, looking down at the phone. “Are you okay, Mr. Novak?” 

He heard Cas whimper, or at least something close to it. Shaky and weak. Almost relieved. “Dean, is that you?” 

“Yeah, yeah, it’s me. You just have hang on for a few more minutes and the police will be there. Is... is Alastair there?” 

“I don’t know. I woke up and he wasn’t here. Dean, I... I’m sorry. I know, everything.” 

His mouth went dry, and he swallowed quickly a few times. _Cas knows. Cas fucking knows._ “Don’t worry about that. Can you tell me where you’re hurt?” 

“My ribs, I think they’re cracked or broken or something. Hurts to breathe. Everything kind of aches.” Dean could hear his shaky breathing in the brief pause. “He, uh, he used a knife on my back a good amount. ‘M tired, too.” 

He let out a relieved breath. All things considered, that was awesome. And Cas himself sounded pretty... together. His voice was shaking and he sounded terrified, but he was talking. That was good. “Okay. Okay, buddy, are you cold or hot or-“

“I’m scared.” His voice was so soft, so vulnerable. His heart ached. “He’s going to kill me, he said he was going to kill me.” 

“They’re coming, Cassie.” Gabe piped up. “They’re coming and you’ll be safe. You’re going to survive all this, Lucifer will be found. Then we can move on, with our lives, with-“ 

“I hear something.” Cas said suddenly. “God, he’s coming back.”

“Charlie, what’s the ETA on the local cops?” Dean asked, looking over at her screen. 

“Twelve minutes out, ambulance a few minutes behind.” 

“Shit! _Shit!_ Cas, Cas listen to me. You need to run and hide. Go as fast as you can, and _live_, just survive. You need to-“ 

“Dean!” Cas shouted over the phone, before he was quickly muffled. 

“Hello, Dean.” 

Shivers ran down his spine, and his knees collapsed. He landed in a chair, forcing himself to handle this calmly. Calmly like this was his fucking _job_. That didn’t stop bile from choking in his throat and the world to spin. “Alastair Mortenson.” 

“Mmmm, I’ve missed your voice, pet. Did you like the little calling card I left for you?”

He just kept his lips pursed, focusing on not puking. 

“Your little friend here has been quite the toy for me to play with. You should hear the sounds he makes. Nothing, though, compared to you.” The almost-moan from the other end of the line made his stomach turn, and he gagged. “Thought I could step out for a little smoke break, but now, this whole situation has put a bit of a wrench in my plans. Don’t worry, though. We’ll be long gone before the police arrive.” 

“Listen to me, you son of a bitch. Don’t you fucking touch-“ 

The call was hung up.

..::*::..

_  
Sunday, 9:41 a.m.  
_

He watched in absolute terror as the phone was clicked off. He was being held against his captor, Alastair’s, he now knew, chest, and a hand covered his mouth. He desperately bit, tried to rip skin off with his teeth, but he was trapped. 

“Angel, angel, angel.” Alastair tisked, lips curling around the cigarette in his mouth. He could barely think through the fear curling in his veins, the burning pain in his back. “I underestimated how far gone you were, didn’t I? Y’know that wasn’t a good idea, don’t you?” 

He nodded, hated himself for complying, but wanting to live more. A hand ghosted through his hair, combing gently, and he flinched. Forced himself to not struggle, everything would be worse if he did. “My pretty, pretty angel. We have to move now, get to the final part of this game a bit quicker than we planned.” 

His head was wrenched back, the hand over his mouth gone. But before he could get a word out, he was being slammed into the wall. All the breath knocked out, stars swirled in his eyes. 

A low whine left his throat at the fireworks that were going off along his back. Shit, it hurt. A thick hand pressed hard against his shoulder socket, pushing down with all his strength. He felt it pop out, and a sharp scream ripped from his throat. 

“You forget who I am, angel. Forget your place in all this. You. Are. My. Bitch.” Spots swirled in Cas’ vision, but he could see Alastair’s free hand reach to grab the cigarette out of his mouth. “No better than a pet, a piece of furniture.” 

The burning tip pushed into his neck, again and again and again. Holes seared down the sensitive flesh for eternity. That smell, so vile and nauseating, assaulted them. “An ashtray, and a broken one at that.” Finally, it stopped. He let his head hang with exhaustion, wanting more than anything for the cacophony of pain running through his body to stop. His hands were grabbed together, wrenching his shoulder, and a zip tie held them there. 

Lips ghosted his ear. “You’re going to listen to everything I say, angel. Don’t forget, I am going to kill you, I’d just prefer to do this somewhere a little less... messy,” A hand tapped the gun on his hip. “But don’t think doing it a few minutes early now would be a problem.” 

His breathing was too fast, heart pumping at a speed that had to be dangerous. Although what about his entire fucking life wasn’t dangerous? A hand cupped his cheek. 

“Calm down, angel. Look at me.” A finger moved to under his chin, pushing it up. “Everything’s going to be just fine. You’re going to do exactly what I say, and everything will be fine.” 

He could feel himself nodding. It was easier to give in. He didn’t want anymore pain, anymore fear. If he just followed orders, he wouldn’t have to worry. Dean and Gabe’s words seemed much too distant to latch onto. A fog flowed over his mind. 

“Come on, angel. Walk over to the car.” Some part of himself was screaming, pounding and yelling against the invisible wall that separated it from action. Everything was warped, unreal, distorted. 

His legs were moving, but it felt like he was walking on clouds. He could barely feel the pain that arched down his back and reverberated in his chest. Pulsed. Alastair was cooing compliments at him that he barely heard. His entire mind felt blank. 

“Good, angel. We’re almost there. Breathe, little seraph, breathe.” He leaned farther into the man’s warm body, savoring heat he hadn’t felt in millennium. Everything was cold. “Get in the trunk.” 

Awareness flooded back to him in degrees. The trunk, he wants him to get back in the trunk. That horrible place of darkness and death and everything else. He wouldn’t do it, couldn’t do it. 

_Dean, he will find him. He needs stay alive and he needs to stay sane._

He wrenched out of the grip on his arm. Alastair quickly grabbed him again though, and spun him around. Pain lanced down his arm, and a choked-off yelp left his throat. He faced cold grey eyes, and fought. 

His fingernails tracked long marks down his face. He kicked and punched and screamed to get free because he was not going back into that place. He couldn't. He was like a rabid animal, he _felt_ like it.

He could hear the sirens ever so faint in the distance. He hoped they were for him, that they would save him. Something like fear crossed his kidnapper’s face, something Cas had never seen before. Alastair grabbed the gun from its holster. 

Now, with blood dripping from scratches on his cheek and a possibly-probably broken nose, he looked even more terrifying. That cool, collected glint was back in his eyes, the gun not wavering. 

“You do not want to test me, angel.” 

He only struggled harder, pushing his body and fueled by adrenaline coursing fire through his veins. The barrel of the gun settled on his forehead, like a cold whisper. His muscles seized in panic.

He felt a tongue lick a burning, moist trail up to his ear, mirrored by the gun’s circular path around his temple. As though his captor was bored, and just doodling on a piece of paper instead of holding what would kill him. Cas shivered, whimpered involuntarily, but forced his chin up to face those dead eyes. He wouldn’t die with his eyes closed and his head bowed. He would face it, just like Michael did.

“I’m going to miss you.” Alastair murmured, nipping at his pulse point. His teeth caught burnt flesh. Their bodies were pressed almost totally together, the heat radiating off then almost enough to stop Cas’s shivers. “You were a lot of fun, my angel.”

The gun went off.

..::*::..

He felt, rather than saw. Cold and warmth and nothing. Like he was burning with heat and ice at the same time, yet felt none of it as well. A paradox. It was disorienting, like those rides at the carnival. Michael goaded him into going on one, once many years ago. He had gotten sick so many times they had needed to go home. Gabe was upset.

The pain had faded to a barely-there thud in his body. There was something warm on his face, he could taste it in his mouth, too. Coppery. Blood. He coughed weakly, wanting nothing more than for it to be gone. 

There were hands on him, moving him around and prodding and poking. It ignited tiny sparks down his spine, in his shoulder and neck. He wished he’d just go away. That Alastair would at least let him die in peace. He earned that much, right? If not from his killer, than from God? He'd been through Purgatory, been cleansed from all sin by the devil himself. Couldn't he at least die now?

He let himself float above all the movement and commotion. He knew it was there, but wasn’t bothered with it. No, instead he focused on prayer. Alastair said he’d prayed all that time ago, in Latin. There were snippets, floating around, but never there enough to latch on to. And, truly, he'd lost his faith. Had from the moment his brother was staring at him with dead eyes, his other brother holding the gun that'd killed him. Like Cain and Abel, Lucifer had said to himself then. 

Someone was speaking to him. He liked their voice. It was warm and welcoming. There were pastures in the afternoon sun, complete with meadows of flowers in the inflection. He basked in it. That person wasn’t Alastair. Couldn’t be. Colors of gold and green were splashed into the black. It was beauty, something truly human. His mind could hardly comprehend it. 

He could feel himself drowning in the darkness, being pulled under by the current. He used the very last reserves of energy he had to swim desperately to the very edge of consciousness. He fought against whirlpools and waves, but finally, he was able to mutter one thing through numb lips: 

“Thank you.”

..::*::..

He was watching.

Every time, he was watching. He could see the sepia curtains hanging over the window, exactly where his parents had put them years ago. The carpet he’d taken his first steps across. 

He was watching Michael, kneeling on the ground with a gun to his forehead. His older brother was shaking, pleading with the devil in front of him. But Lucifer just cocked the gun. 

He was watching when the shot went off. Blood spattered everything, brain matter dotting those curtains. And Michael, the same one who had given him candy and gotten him up for school since he was ten, was lying on the ground. A hole marred the back of his head. 

He watched Lucifer clean everything. He watched him drag their dead brother outside, to where, he didn’t know. He was frozen in the relative safety of the closet, breathing in the scent of mothballs. Exactly like the coward he was.

The closet door was tugged open, light bright against his eyes, and Michael was looking down at him. Blood coated his face, matted into his hair. Grey eyes, unseeing. 

“You let him kill me.” 

It was terrifying, and he could only shake in fear. Like he was five years old and scared of a nightmare, trying to keep from waking his parents up. They wouldn’t like him crying, and his ribs hurt enough for tears to already spring into his eyes.

He stayed huddled on the floor, gazing up at the person above him. “I’m sorry.” 

“You should have saved me, Castiel.” 

And then the world was twisting, until they were no longer in the living room. No, they were in a place of darkness, absolute. Michael wasn’t staring down at him, but himself. Blue eyes, but colder than seemed possible. 

“You’re nothing.” 

And he knows that. It’s true, so true. He nods, staring at his brother’s stained shoes. 

“You should have died. You should have tried to save him.” 

“I know.” His whispered, voice cracking. He kept his head bowed. “I know.” 

“Let go. Let everything go.” 

He wanted to. God, he wanted to. Just let himself sink into the muddy tar under him and never wake up. Take it in his own hands. 

And he was so close. Hanging on by the most minuscule thread, when gold flitted down. As though it was sunlight, shining through a grove of trees. Green coated the floor, covering the black. Warmth. Happiness. He wanted to stay there. 

So he held on. 

And the voices screamed at him. Michael, for abandoning him. Himself, for all the wrongs he’s committed. And Alastair, taunting his weakness. 

But the small patch of happiness he had was enough. The green and the gold and the sun shining on his face, it was enough. 

And he held on.

..::*::..

_  
Tuesday, 5:48 p.m.  
_

He knew the moment he was fully conscious, because of the pain. It was everywhere, all sharp edges stabbing him. He groaned, twisting, trying to get away. All he accomplished was getting heavy hands holding him down. 

Warmth flooded through him, dulling the agony. It made his head float, and finally he could think enough to be aware. 

“You’re alright, Cas. You’re fine, just breathe through it. The morphine’ll kick in in a minute.”

It was the voice again. The same one he could just barely remember. He latched onto it, forcing himself to be awake. He wanted to stay here, wanted to stay with the voice. 

His eyelids fluttered. 

There was a sharp intake of breath next to him, then some frantic whispering, “Shit, get Gabriel, tell him he’s waking up!” 

He opened his mouth, licked his lips to try and moisten them. Everything felt rusty, like he hadn’t used it in years. His throat was ripped apart. “Dn?” 

“Cas? Cas, fuck, can you hear me?” Came the frantic reply. He felt the terror that’d been in him since his abduction ooze away. The tension in his muscles left until he was lying totally on the pillows. Dean was here, his brother was here. Everything was going to be fine. 

Finally, he opened his eyes. 

Green and gold stared back at him, wide in both fear and hope. He could see the smattering of freckles around Dean’s face this close. The faint blush in his cheeks. 

“I... I thought you- fuck.” Dean stammered. He didn’t have to finish. They both knew what he meant. He was pulled into a hug that made him hiss. Dean let him down immediately. “I’m sorry, man. I’m so, so fucking sorry that I let him get you, that-“ 

“Stop, Dean.” He said quietly, forcing the words out of his ruined throat. “‘s not your fault.” 

“I _know_ him, I should’ve been able to fight back. I should’ve-“ 

He reached his shaking left hand, ignoring how it pulled on his back, and gently touched the bandage on Dean’s temple. “You were unconscious, tell me how you were supposed to fight?” 

There were tears in Dean’s eyes, resolutely not falling. It was painful for him to see the clash of emotions in the jade. “I’m so sorry.” 

And he could tell that there was more meaning in the words, that he was apologizing for more than just Alastair taking him. But he kept his hand on his hairline. For nothing beyond both of them needing the assurance that this was real, and they were safe. 

_Dean will find him_, he’d told himself. 

And he did. 

Seems he always did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings:  
Torture  
Panic Attacks
> 
> Thank you for continuing to read! The next and last chapter will be up Sunday. Please kudo, comment, or subscribe; it makes this little writer's day!


	5. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it, the final chapter! Thanks to everyone who continued through and read this!

There was a Bible on the table in front of him. It was leather-bound, with edges leafed in gold. The text on the front cover shimmered in the light of the lamp above him. It seemed beautiful. 

Five years ago, it had been now. Five years since that book had appeared on his bedside, a note explaining its contents resting on the cover. And, in those five years, he'd never had the courage to read it. 

Throughout the month he'd spent in the hospital then, flowers and balloons came and went. Mostly from Gabe or Dean, occasionally from the woman he later learned was Charlie. He watched them all, as they appeared on the table bright and beautiful, only to wither or fall to the ground within a few days. But the Bible had stayed, always just as shiny and worn. 

When he had his first seizure, and he wasn't allowed to read or watch TV or do anything beyond lay in a dark room, Dean was laying next to him on the thin bed. He asked if he wanted it read to him. And, for a moment, it wasn't the man he had grown to love running soft fingers through his hair; it was Michael, tucking him in and reading a verse to give him strength. It was his mother and father, faces now faded from memory, reminding him to pray. 

But he didn't say yes. 

And when it'd been a week from his last complication and it seemed he was finally well enough to go home, that Bible got packed into his bag. Note safely hidden in the front cover. 

Dean was the only one that understood. The only one that didn't look at him strangely when it was suddenly too small in the car they were in, or the cigarette smoke outside made him nauseous and panicky. The only one who didn't treat him like glass, already broken and held together with craft glue. He was careful, always careful. But he didn't treat him like he was weak. 

When he was released, Dean brought him to this burger place an hour outside of the city. It was small and greasy and packed to the brim with people, and apparently served the best burgers in the state. It was there, as he was furiously wiping the dollop of ketchup that had gotten on his sling off, Dean kissed him. 

That moment seemed to last forever. They weren't the two victims there, just _there_. And the Bible that was in his pocket didn't seem quite as heavy. He almost forgot it was there. 

They moved in together soon after. A month later, Sam's daughter was born. And when they were all standing there, taking turns holding her, he could only wonder at how he was here. How, despite everything, it felt like life was maybe, finally, going right. Two years later, Rose Winchester would wobble towards him, saying 'Uncle Cas' as best as she could. 

For a while, life simply moved on. A year passed, two. Dean was promoted after Bobby retired. His next book got published and gained him some minor notoriety. And, exactly three years after he had woken up in that hospital, Dean proposed to him, sheepishly smiling as he handed him the ring attached to a stuffed animal bee. Apparently, Charlie had made him bet that if he ever did propose, that was how he would do it, and Dean wasn't about to lose (and he secretly knew that Cas would love it.. And he was right).

Now, somehow, he was here. Married to the man he loved, with a perfect family and a dog (that was Sam's idea of a wedding present. Cas was over the moon. Dean.... not so much. But the look that Cas had given him was more than enough to make him shut up. Now he would give his life for that dog). The Bible left his pocket and moved to a drawer next to his bed. It was there, if he wanted it. But he didn't need it, not anymore. 

He looked up at the mirror hanging on the opposite wall. There were scars lining his neck, and even more that he couldn't see. But his eyes were happy, and he was ready. He opened the Bible. 

His eyes filled with tears at the first words. It was simple, added in a blue pen that was starting to fade with age. But the four words were still legible: 'belongs to Michael Novak.' Reese, their dog, jumped onto the couch and laid her head into Cas' lap. He let the tears fall, burying his face deep into her fur. It was a while before he looked up again, but when he did, he started reading. 

He got somewhere past Genesis by the time he fell asleep. Dean shook him awake the next morning, smiling that beautiful smile that made Cas' heart warm. He could smell bacon cooking in the kitchen, and knew it was already pretty late (Dean was the only one that cooked in that house; Cas had burned more than his share of pasta, no way was he trying anything more complicated). 

"What time is it?" He asked, groaning as his neck cracked when he lifted it up. At least he didn't still have a fifty-pound canine on him. That might have been too much for his body to handle. He really was starting to get old. 

"Almost nine. At least it's a Saturday, or we would both have some explaining to do. Doesn't set a good standard if your boss is coming in late." His husband gave him a wink, before grabbing his hand and pulling him off the couch. "Come on, I made bacon, and I swear I will leave your ass right here. Nothing is keeping me from my bacon." 

Cas just laughed, letting himself be pulled up before giving Dean a kiss. "I read it." He melted into the embrace Dean was giving him, letting his head slot against his neck. And he felt how it tightened when he said that, how happy he could tell his husband was at that last and final step he was taking, no matter how long it had taken him. And the bacon was quickly forgotten, Cas simply listening to heart beating steadily beneath him. 

Because, despite what Lucifer and Alastair tried, they never did break them. Alastair had been shot by the cop that had been the first on the scene, some newbie named Claire. They were able to track that bastard's phone records and find Lucifer, finally putting him behind bars. Within a month, he'd been killed by some guy holding a grudge. They were here, together and happier than ever, while their tormentors were rotting in their graves. 

It seemed that, for once, real life did have a happy ending.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please kudo, comment, or subscribe!!

**Author's Note:**

> No warnings in this chapter.
> 
> Thank you for reading! The next chapter will be out Monday, 8/12.
> 
> A quick note: the Cas you see in this story is not the same bad-ass angel we all know. He has similar personality traits, the same quirks, but has not lived through millennia of trauma and violence. Therefore, this Cas might seem weaker than the original, but that was completely my intention. 
> 
> Please kudo, comment, and subscribe! It is the best thing for any author to see that people are reading and enjoying their work!


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